Hecate's Children (Complete)
by Freya Ishtar
Summary: With Voldemort's demise, Harry rises as the new Dark Lord, only to vanish as the dust settles—taking his Death Eaters & Hermione with him. In hiding, he puts a plan into action to conquer not only Wizarding Britain, but the entire Wizarding World. And it involves his best friend—whether she likes it, or not. *dark!Harry, werewolf!Hermione* (Antomione/Thormione)
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note** s:

 **1)** There are some AU elements leading up to the events of this story, despite that it _mostly_ follows canon up to the Battle of Hogwarts: 1) Ron died as a result of injuries received fleeing the Ministry during the Horcrux Hunt, 2) Antonin Dolohov is younger than his canon portrayal (34 yrs. old, to be exact [making him 17 during the First Wizarding War  & certainly old enough to have still become a Death Eater, _then_ ]).

 **2)** There will be some deviation from HP canon werewolves. There is a valid, in-story reason for this.

 **3)** Harry's soul dying rather than the sliver of Voldemort's is a popular fanon _'what if_?' scenario, but if anyone is aware of who _actually_ started this idea, please let me know so that I may credit them, accordingly.

 **4)** Those re-reading this since the previous update may notice a change in the way Thorfinn addresses Hermione (switching it from 'Princess' to 'Sunshine'). I'd initially borrowed elements Canimal had created for his character (with her knowledge and permission), but she has been hurt several times by fellow writers who borrowed without asking or giving credit, and so she has stopped granting permission. I realized part of the issue might be the more places other writers see these elements, the less likely they are to think they're not just common fanon. While she allowed me to continue borrowing those elements, myself, I felt it was a greater sign of respect for her efforts were I to go through any WiPs where these elements appear, and weed them out in place of my own take on the characters and their dynamics.

* * *

 **FANCASTS** : Ian Somerholder as Antonin Dolohov (thank Kittenshift17 for that); Chris Hemsworth as Thorfinn Rowle; Jason Momoa as Fenrir Greyback

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 **DISCLAIMER** **:** I do not own _Harry Potter_ and make no profit from this story.

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 **Chapter One**

As a child in the Muggle world, Hermione Granger was taught that good _always_ triumphed over evil, because that's _just_ the way things were. As an adult in the Wizarding world, she had learned _that_ was a lie.

And possibly the most _wretched_ lie a person could ever put their faith in.

Opening her eyes in the darkened chamber, the stone walls dabbled here and there with weak and fading sunlight, dim recollections played through her mind, but the thoughts were scattered, making the flashes of memory difficult to understand. She climbed to her feet on aching limbs and tried to explore her surroundings only to find her wand gone and a shackle around one ankle that would likely prevent her from walking very far, at all.

As she wrapped cold and stinging fingers around the thick chain and pulled, testing just how sturdy the bolt securing it into the chamber wall was, she tried to think back over how she'd gotten here.

She recalled following Harry into the Dark Forest, despite his urging not to. He should've known better than to expect her to listen. He'd only been trying to protect her, she knew . . . but who was going to protect _him_?

Hermione shook her head, wishing she could stop the rush of memories, now, as she poured what little strength she currently had into pulling on the chain.

He'd faced off against Voldemort and _fallen_. She let out an anguished cry and released the cold iron links, falling to floor on her knees.

She'd _felt_ it! She'd felt Harry die. Keeping her pain in check, she'd followed the Death Eaters back to Hogwarts; the cries of their friends and loved ones rang in her ears, still, at the sight of Hagrid carrying Harry like that. At Voldemort's announcement that Harry Potter was _dead_.

Hermione buried her face in her hands, trying to staunch the flow of miserable tears.

When Harry had tumbled from Hagrid's arms and launched himself at Voldemort, once more, she'd known one very simple truth that no one else had. Everyone else had jumped right back into the fray, but she was frozen where she stood, because she knew . . . .

The wizard battling Voldemort was _not_ Harry Potter.

She tried to catch her breath. Pressing a shaky hand to her heart, she tipped her head back, dragging huge, hiccupping gulps of air into her lungs.

Voldemort had fallen . . . . And as the battle continued raging around them, Harry simply reached down and extracted the Elder Wand from the former Dark Lord's fingers.

His grip on the Hallow was _possessive_. He turned his head, looking about the battlefield. She'd watched as his gaze swept over Fenrir Greyback, gravely wounded on the ground, not far from her . . . .

Then he'd met her gaze. Those once familiar green eyes glowed with the energy of Dark magic. As he reached up and removed his glasses, Hermione regained control of her body.

She'd turned and bolted into the Forest, as fast as her battered and exhausted limbs would carry her.

A chill dashed up her spine at the memory of his voice, so icy, so unlike her best friend's—her bloody _soulmate_! And she'd watched him die!

"Fetch me the Mudblood," he'd said, his tone cold and commanding.

Some signal must've passed through the Death Eaters, because his order was not questioned. There was no confusion in following his words. Feet pounded the ground behind her and she couldn't help but glance back.

Antonin Dolohov and Rabastan Lestrange were on her trail and _gaining_. Under Harry's direction, Thorfinn Rowle was hoisting up a half-dead Fenrir from the ground.

All the while, the battle carried on . . . . But she could hear pockets of sudden confusion popping up in the distance.

She tried to force her legs to move faster, but the information meeting her ears did not bode well. The Death Eaters were disappearing from the battlefield, one-by-one.

In a last ditch effort to escape, she cast hexes at her pursuers with blind, wild waves of her wand over her shoulder.

And then . . . .

Hermione swallowed hard, her bottom lip shivering as she wiped at her cheeks with the sleeve of her tatty, bedraggled jumper.

And then there was _nothing_. She'd opened her eyes _here_ and had no idea where she was, or what might've been done to her in the time between losing consciousness and waking here. She didn't even know how much time had passed.

With a steadying breath, she forced herself to calm and started a cursory examination of her own body.

No bones seemed broken, no severe sprains, either . . . . Her hair was a tangled mess, but what was new, there? She inhaled sharp and deep as she stood, again.

She dreaded having to wonder this, but these _were_ Death Eaters she was dealing with. Closing her eyes, she ran trembling fingers over her clothes. Across her breasts, down along her hips and abdomen, between the insides of her thighs . . . . Over the fly of her jeans and across her bum.

There were no tears in the fabric she did not recall receiving in the battle; no button, or zipper, undone. She had no mysterious aches, tenderness, or throbbing anywhere of consequence.

Her breath rushed from her lips in a shuddering exhale and she folded forward. Her relief was so strong, it dizzied her for a moment. "Thank _God_ ," she said, her voice no more than a whispered tumble of sound.

Aware she likely had little time to waste with feelings as currently useless as relief or thankfulness, Hermione returned to her inspection of her surroundings. She'd been too distracted with her painful recollections and her pointless struggle with her chain to pay attention, otherwise.

Now, as she looked about in the barely-present illumination, she became aware of vague shapes. She didn't want to think what this space resembled, now that she could recognize things.

That was when she heard it. Holding her breath, she strained to listen in the darkness.

Shallow inhalations drifted to her from somewhere nearby. She _wasn't_ alone.

Closing her eyes, she tried to get a sudden, icy roiling of fear in the pit of her stomach under control. What if that was another prisoner? They certainly sounded weak . . . . They'd not stirred at her outburst a few moments earlier

Whoever that was, they were likely injured.

Cursing herself, Hermione gathered the length of her chain in her hand, once more, her other out beside her for guidance in the abysmal lighting as she crept toward the breathing on silent footfalls. Might as well use the opportunity to see just how much movement her confines allowed, while she was at it.

Along a cold stone wall, rough and pocked with age, she went, the sound getting steadily closer. She could pick up the scents of herbal healing concoctions and medicinal potions, not terribly dissimilar from the way the hospital wing of Hogwarts had smelled.

 _Hogwarts . . . ._

Forcing away another bout of sadness that threatened to crash over her, she shook her head and continued on.

The fingers of her free hand trembled as they edged around a bend in the wall. She followed the curve of the stone around a corner to see the shape of a person, lying on a table or a gurney, perhaps?

Light flooded the chamber and the shock to her senses caused her to backpedal a step as she shielded her eyes with her arm. A pained, raspy chuckle met her ears from the other prisoner.

"Mudblood," he said. "Thought that was you from the scent."

Swallowing hard, Hermione lowered her arm, blinking rapidly a few times as her eyes adjusted. "Greyback?"

"Nice to be remembered, I suppose." His voice was no more than a low, dull growl of words.

As the scene before her finally swam into focus, Hermione was horrified. Even knowing who he was, even knowing what he was capable of and what he'd wanted to do to her, had fate granted him the chance, her heart constricted sharply at the state he was in.

Tethered to the hospital bed beneath him, Fenrir Greyback was bare from the waist up. The naked muscles punctured and torn with so many wounds she didn't think she could stomach an attempt to count them all.

He was gritting his teeth continually, sweat beading his skin and his amber eyes seemed scrunched in a permanent squint.

Hermione found herself asking the question before she could stop herself. "What happened to you?"

"Ask your _friend_ Potter," he said in a hissing whisper.

So Harry _was_ responsible for her predicament—not that she'd thought otherwise for even a _second_ since opening her eyes—but she forced aside a wash of anguish and betrayal as she shook her head. "That . . . that man is _not_ my friend. My friend _died_."

"At least you're up to speed." His words were followed by an exhausted chuckle.

"Did they leave you down here to die?"

"The opposite. Just my luck, right?" He struggled weakly against his restraints as he spoke. "I was put down here to be kept _alive_. What is it the Muggles call that? Karma?"

Footfalls echoed through the chamber, giving her a start. It was not lost on her the way Fenrir gave up his fight, seeming to recoil into his bed from the sound.

Whether that was due to fear of what whoever was coming down here might do to him, or some werewolf instinct she couldn't understand, his response put Hermione on alert. She spun on her heel, looking toward the sound.

She was ignoring that she'd deliberately placed herself between the visitor and the immobilized werewolf. _Stupid Gryffindor courage,_ she thought with a sad little laugh at herself.

At the end of the chamber, she saw someone descending a half-hidden staircase. The chamber, itself, now that she had time to look was wide and long, the ancient brown stone of the walls reminded her of catacombs, or some archaic temple's antechamber.

Hermione also ignored the needling, curious voice telling her to take this opportunity to poke about, further. There was just enough give on her chain, still, that she was able to wrap the thick links around her hand once. Clenching her fingers into a fist, she put her arm behind her, hiding the sad, makeshift weapon from view.

Clearing the wall that blocked much of the staircase, Antonin Dolohov stepped into her line of sight.

Of _all_ the Death Eaters for Harry to send down here . . . .

Her heart hammered against her rib cage and she had to remind herself to breathe as he made his way toward her. She knew the werewolf behind her must've sensed her reaction, because he muttered something about her at least having _some_ sense.

"I'm not here to hurt Fenrir," Antonin said as he stopped before the portion of the chamber she'd awoken in, his hands spread wide. He narrowed his pale-blue eyes at her, the delicate skin beneath them crinkling. "Not here to hurt _you_ , either."

She ignored that he seemed to spend a little more time than strictly necessary thinking over the scene he'd come upon. "Then why _are_ you here?"

"Our new Lord sent me to examine you and assess your injuries."

"Like you assessed Greyback's?"

Antonin visibly forced a gulp down his throat before darting his gaze about the chamber. "I have nothing to do with that. Now, if you'd like to get this over with quickly, I suggest you come _here_."

Hermione dug her heel in, though she understood it was a losing fight. "And if I _don't_?"

He shook his head, raking his fingers through his longish black hair in an exasperated gesture. "You're chained and unarmed and _I_ have a wand. I've got a job to do. Now come here, or I'll _make_ you."

Surprising her, she heard Fenrir Greyback whisper, "Go." There was a note of warning in that single word that prompted her into motion.

She moved on reluctant footsteps to stand before the Death Eater. Never had she been _this_ close to him, and she didn't want to be, now. The memories of his attempt to end her life sent little, flitting sparks across her chest and stomach, running along the path his curse had taken when he'd struck her with it in the Department of Mysteries.

For a few, strained and uneasy heartbeats, he only stood before her, holding her gaze.

Clearing his throat, he gestured into the area where she'd woken, once more. "Go on."

Hermione didn't want to turn and look. She didn't want to see the things she'd _thought_ were scattered around that portion of the chamber.

Steeling her nerves, she pivoted on a heel. There was an ancient-looking bed, some equally antiquated bedroom furniture, a short stack of shelves stuffed with books. She felt her gut churning. She'd known she was a prisoner . . . but the clear evidence that Harry meant her to _live_ here for who knew how long turned her stomach inside out.

Yet, none of that was as terrible as the other side of her room. Before her was an apothecary station, exam table, and crates filled with all manner of potions ingredients stacked neatly by a cauldron.

"Why you?" she asked as she moved to the exam table.

Hermione turned back to face him as she lifted herself up to sit. The expression pinching his features was strangely thoughtful as he frowned, his head tipping side-to-side as he followed her.

As he extracted his wand from the inside pocket of his robes, he shrugged. "If I had to guess, I'd say it's probably the medical knowledge I've acquired through my work with information extraction."

She recoiled on the table. "I think you meant to say _torture_."

Again, he shrugged after another moment's thought. "Potato, potah-to."

He stepped closer and she recoiled, further. "I . . . you're not going to make me undress or anything, are you?"

Antonin eyed her for several seconds. "That won't be necessary, unless you feel it would make the examination more thorough, somehow."

"Certainly not!"

He _actually_ smirked. The predicament she'd woken to, and he was _laughing_ at her.

She tried to keep her words to herself as he closed the distance between them to start scanning her limbs and torso with his wand. She didn't like that he was so close his hip occasionally bumped her knee. She didn't like that even though she wasn't looking at him, she could feel the weight of his gaze on her face.

He was trying to unnerve her, and she knew it.

His hand brushed her throat as he swept her hair back to examine her neck and shoulders. She tried not to shiver as he reached around her to cup the back of her head, his fingertips sinking into the wild, golden-brown tangle to rub her scalp in search of any bumps or gashes.

Having his hands on her as he stood so near that she could feel his breath on her made her want to jump out of her skin.

As he finished the examination, she hissed out the words, "God, I _hate_ you."

He backpedaled half a step and then braced his palms on either side of her upon the table. Holding her gaze with narrowed eyes, he asked, "Do you really?"

Forcing a gulp down her throat, she nodded.

"Good." His lips twisted up at one corner as he flicked over her with his eyes before returning them to hers. " _Keep_ that fire. You'll live longer."

He moved back from her then, and she felt the oddest sense of cold in his absence. Ignoring it, she watched him walk away.

At the entry to her spacious stone alcove—she couldn't _try_ to trick herself into thinking of this as a room—he glanced back at her over his shoulder. Nodding toward the bed, he said, "You should get some rest. Someone will be down to bring you something to eat and take you to wash yourself up, soon enough."

"Wait." The word was out before she could stop it. But he was still looking at her, so she pushed herself to ask, "What is it Harry wants with me?"

"I'm not permitted to say." After a moment—and with a bizarre sense of what she thought might be sympathy—he tacked on, "But I can tell you you're going to need your strength. So, do as I say and rest up."

And then he was gone.

Several pained and quiet heartbeats passed before she managed to pull herself down from the exam table. She could hear Fenrir's pained and shallow breathing in the distance, though it sounded a bit slower, a little less labored. He'd probably managed to fall asleep, somehow.

Glancing out the high, narrow window, the setting of night peeked through the bars. She _should_ rest, too, she supposed. There was nothing else to do, after all. They weren't likely to have her stashed away any place where unwanted parties might be able to hear her scream.

And she'd woken with a deep sense of exhaustion she simply could not shake.

Making her way to the bed, the events that ended the Battle of Hogwarts played through her head, again. She pulled back the covers and shook them out, relieving them of a covering of dust—the pillowcase and sheets shockingly pristine, in comparison.

Crawling beneath the blankets, she pressed her cheek into the pillow and closed her eyes. Though, it wasn't long before the wretched memory of watching her best friend die saw to Hermione Granger crying herself to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

What seemed like only hours later, Hermione awoke feeling no better, but with the pervasive sense sinking in that someone was _watching_ her. She sat up and pushed her covers away, squinting in the morning light that sliced though the bars of the high and narrow window meters above her head.

The illumination was still sparse, but it was far better than it'd been the evening before; she could at least see her surroundings clearly. She didn't want to turn her head to look toward the source of the prickly sensation, because she had a terrible feeling twisting in her gut that she already knew who it was gracing her with his presence.

"You were asleep quite a long time, Hermione," he said, that icy and commanding voice coming across as oddly conversational.

Her shoulders drooping, she shook her head as she forced herself to look at him. His glasses were nowhere in sight, and a thick growth of facial hair lining his jaw made her wonder just how much time had passed between his goons dragging her from Hogwarts, and her waking here last night.

And that unsettling Dark energy still crackled in his green eyes.

She immediately shrank back from him. Instinct sent her hand skittering about in search of a wand, her useless hunt bringing a chuckle out of him. The sound of his amusement sent a chill through her.

"Is _that_ anyway to greet your best friend?"

Hermione forced a hard gulp down her throat, though she had no idea how she managed to hold his gaze as she shook her head. "My best friend is _dead_."

He tipped his head to one side, a slow grin curving his lips. "Didn't have _you_ fooled for a second, did I?" he asked, one brow arching for a fleeting second as he spoke.

"Of course not," she said, her voice no more than a shivering whisper. "The question is who _are_ you? Are you . . . Tom Riddle?"

That grin widened, a strangely appreciative gleam in his eyes. "You really _did_ have it all worked out that moment you learned what a Horcrux was, didn't you?"

Irritated by the brushoff, she repeated herself. " _Are_ you Tom Riddle?"

"Technically, I _should_ be," he said, crossing the floor to sit on the edge of her bed. He reached out, tapping a finger against the tip of her nose and clearly amused by how the gesture startled her. "But I'm not. Not _really_. See . . . I've got Harry Potter's memories, and Tom Riddle's memories. Harry Potter's magic, and Tom Riddle's magic . . . and just enough of a soul to tie it _all_ together."

She recoiled further, her back hitting the wall as he leaned toward her. Of course she understood all that—the real Tom Riddle'd had no soul left after halving the remaining fractions so many times to make more Horcruxes after the diary. She simply hadn't realized it was possible for that sliver of Voldemort's soul to develop an identity all its own.

"What I _am_ is a whole new creature, Hermione. Though, I have found myself _quite_ fond of being called Lord Potter. So I suppose _you_ can still call me Harry, if you like."

"I will do _no_ such thing," she said, an angry frown tugging the corners of her mouth downward. "Because I will _never_ call you anything."

"Ooh." He chuckled, feigning a shiver. "Denying me the acknowledgement of a proper human name. I think both sides of me never fully appreciated _precisely_ how clever you are."

She didn't like being this close to him, not when he had Harry's face and his green eyes crackled, still. "What is it you want with me?"

Reaching a hand toward her, he patted her arm. "Soon enough, Hermione. _Now_ , it's time you ate something."

He stood from the bed, and as he turned and started away, Hermione couldn't help herself from piping up. "You're going to burn yourself out, you know? The magic of two _powerful_ wizards in one body? Your own magic is _going_ to destroy you."

Glancing at her over his shoulder, he crinkled the bridge of his nose at her—as one might do when they thought a small animal _cute_. "You let me worry about that, yeah?"

A tall, broad-shouldered wizard with long blond hair passed _Lord Potter_ with a small bow of his head, a covered tray in his hands. She recognized him for precisely the reason she recognized Antonin Dolohov so easily—because he'd previously tried to kill her under orders from the Dark Lord. His expression said clearly that he was no happier to be there than she was to have him there.

She tipped sideways on the bed to look beyond the lumbering Viking of a wizard making his way toward her. "Really? First you send Dolohov to examine me, now Thorfinn Rowle to feed me?"

"And bathe you."

" _What?"_

The new leader of the Death Eaters shrugged, his features disturbingly serene. "Oh, I wouldn't want you to wound or exhaust yourself while you're still recovering from your injuries . . . or think there's _any_ chance of escape."

She watched as he turned on his heel and walked out of her line of sight. From his direction, she thought perhaps he was going to harass the wounded and bound Fenrir.

Thorfinn set the tray down on her night table before he settled into a chair beside the small bookcase. "G' on," he said with a shake of his head and a dismissive wave of his hand.

Hermione was impossibly relieved that he wasn't _actually_ feeding her. Reaching out with trembling fingers, she removed the lid from the dish and pulled the tray into her lap.

The food could've tasted wonderful or horrid, but her lack of interest in her meal made everything bland. As she ate, her watcher turned his attention to the books lining the shelves, tapping his fingers along the spines. She didn't know if he was simply fidgeting out of boredom, or genuinely interested to see what titles her only source of entertainment bore.

After a few sips of what was probably coffee, she cleared her throat. "You're . . . you're not _actually_ going to bathe me, are you?"

Thorfinn Rowle's blue eyes shot wide as he turned his attention to her. "No. He's just trying to unsettle you."

"He accomplishes that just by existing."

"Oh, you are a right little bundle of sunshine, aren't you?" Thorfinn snickered, shaking his head.

Ignoring any hint of levity, unintentional though it was, she dropped her gaze as she miserably finished her last bite. Every sip of her beverage was slow and measured, though she wasn't entirely certain why she was drawing it out. Maybe she was getting some twisted joy from how visibly irritated he was getting with her dawdling.

Harmless irritation was really the only weapon at her disposal, wasn't it?

All too soon, there was nothing left in her cup. She set it down reluctantly and turned her attention to him. "I'm finished."

Nodding, he stood, grumping as he crossed the floor to her. Without asking, or waiting for invitation, he clamped a large hand around her ankle and pulled her across the bed toward him.

She yelped, slapping and punching him, but her struggle didn't seem to faze him, much. Only when she saw him pull the key to her shackle from inside his robes did she drop her hands back to her sides.

He unlocked her binding and brushed the heavy iron cuff aside with a careless flick of his fingers. Hermione wasn't certain if he'd done that as an intentional show of brawn, or hadn't given it a moment's thought at all. Either way, it was all she could do not to skitter backward again as she watched him pocket the key, once more.

Eyeing her curiously as her breathing steadied in the wake of her little struggle—whatever spell she'd been hit with on the battlefield must've _really_ done a number on her if she became winded this easily—he braced his fists on either side of her upon the bed. Holding her panicked gaze, he said in a low, threatening tone. "Now, what exactly did you _think_ I was going to do to you?"

Hermione flinched back a little, not liking having his face so close to hers. "How should I know? I don't know if he said 'do what you like with the Mudblood, just don't rough her up too bad.'"

"You should be so lucky, _Sunshine_."

"Don't call me that."

"So you _do_ still have some fire left in you." He nodded, before promptly scooping her up from the bed and turning on his heel.

"Oh, what is this nonsense, now?" she demanded, once more struggling against him and pretending that she didn't realize his statement meant he and Dolohov had been discussing her.

"Our Lord doesn't want you wasting _any_ strength unnecessarily. So, as you can imagine, until you're all better, that means you're getting carried about like a useless little lump."

Recognizing that her fight was ineffectual—and, really, what _was_ she going to do if she did get him to drop her?—she gave up. Folding her arms under her breasts, she pulled in her shoulders, trying to make herself as small as possible in his hold.

He uttered a scoffing chuckle as he started up the narrow, ancient staircase with her. "Look at that, you can become even more compact."

"Is that a short joke?"

Thorfinn shrugged, unable to help himself. Armed, the Mudblood was terrifying. _Un_ armed, she was sort of amusing . . . and perhaps a hint adorable. "Just a little one."

Hermione turned her head and lifted her gaze to his face above hers. "That was truly awful, you know that?"

"Oh, what are you going to do? Run away from my terrible humor?"

"Letting myself drown in the bathtub so I don't have to hear any more of it comes to mind."

"Not going to happen." He wondered if he should tighten his hold on her preemptively before going on, but decided against it, genuinely curious to see her reaction. "I may not actually be _bathing_ you, but as Lord Potter has already considered you might attempt to escape by drowning yourself . . . I _am_ to keep an eye on you."

Her comparatively tiny frame exploded into motion as she renewed her struggle to get out of his hold.

He let her go on like that as he rounded the landing of the staircase and brought her through the first floor of a place she couldn't be bothered to look at as she fought him. Thorfinn turned again to bring her up another flight of steps when one of her flailing heels caught him in the jaw.

She froze entirely as he halted mid-step. Her stomach iced over and she could swear all sensation was sapped from her extremities as a growl-like sound rumbled in his chest, so very close to her ear.

Huffing out a sharp breath, he set her on her feet, but latched a hand around one of her arms to stop her from running anywhere. He lifted his free hand to his face, wiping at a corner of his mouth with the back of his fist.

Chestnut eyes widening, Hermione tried to feign a no-reaction response when he pulled his hand back to reveal the droplets of crimson on his skin. Her attempt at bravado proved impossible, what with her gut turning itself inside out as she waited for _his_ reaction.

How she was keeping her breakfast in her stomach where it bloody well belonged was beyond her.

Yet, he looked _amused_. Actually, if she didn't know any better, that slip of a grin curving his lips as he shifted his gaze to meet hers might make her think he _enjoyed_ a little pain.

He dragged her to him and leaned down, so close she could feel the rush of warm air against her cheeks as he exhaled. "It's going to take a little more than that to get on my _good_ side, Sunshine."

Hermione swallowed hard, but kept her mouth shut. She had no idea how to respond to this behavior from him. Though, she did have to wonder if that was precisely what he was aiming for, because he nodded in reply to her silence, and scooped her right back up.

As he started up that second flight of stairs with her in his arms, she found her voice. "So, why can't a _witch_ keep an eye on me while I bathe?" Did this weird new Harry-Tom-creature get some perverse joy out of making her uncomfortable?

Oh, wait. He probably did—she wasn't even sure why it had been a question in her mind.

She felt the rumbling of it in his chest as he let out a weighted sigh. "I won't actually be _watching_ you, you brilliant little twit," he said with a shake of his head. "I'm only supervising to ensure you don't do anything stupid. I can do _that_ by listening. Unless you actually _want_ me to watch you in the bath?"

Hermione uttered a scandalized gasp. Again, he'd found a way to silence her with a statement.

He dropped his gaze to her face for a moment as he reached the second floor landing. The bloom of color staining her cheeks brought a boisterous chuckle out of him.

"I was elected to monitor you, because apparently you've got a reputation for being . . . _fiery_. And, as you've just proven that correct, I can understand why sending a witch to make sure you don't have the opportunity to run—and don't do something as stupid as trying to off yourself—would probably _not_ be a good idea."

She folded her arms, once more.

"Look at you, getting all tiny, again."

She lifted her gaze to his face, her expression angry and soured. "Will you just stop talking already, you . . . Viking!"

Thorfinn snorted a chuckle. "You realize that's hardly an insult, you _little_ ray of sunshine."

"Oh, shut _up_!" she pleaded, the irony not lost on her that he was calling her little _anything_ while carrying her about as though she was some tiny, helpless thing.

He turned and stepped through an open doorway. Resisting an urge to simply open his arms and let her tumble to the tiled floor, he set her on her feet.

"Towels, fresh robes," he said, pointing the items out and then to the already filled tub. "Bath, now. I'm giving you ten minutes. If you're not finished by then, I'm coming in to get you."

He didn't step out. Didn't close the door. No, he spun on his bloody heel and put his back to her _inside_ the doorway!

"You're not even going to close the door?"

Thorfinn's head tipped back as he uttered a groan. "Bloody hell! You make _everything_ difficult, don't you?"

She nodded. "If I can manage."

He turned to face her, leaning close to her as he'd done downstairs. "If I have to close this door, it means me standing _in_ the closed bathroom with you while you bathe."

Hermione dropped her gaze to the floor shrugging. "If you can keep your back turned, then I suppose that's fine. Better than _every_ Death Eater under this roof having the opportunity to catch an eyeful."

His eyes rolled so hard the lids fluttered as he squared his jaw. Straightening to his full height, he moved into the room and blindly slammed the door shut behind him. There were so many other things he wanted to be doing right now, and playing watch dog over some jumped up Mudblood was _not_ among them—no matter how important she was to their new Lord's plans.

He pivoted on his heel, folding his arms across his chest as he faced the door. "Ten minutes, or I _drag_ you out of that water."

She didn't need the reminder. Heading straight to the tub, she kicked off her trainers and stripped out of her filthy and torn clothes. All the while, she kept her attention trained on him.

It was a bit of a feat, scrubbing her skin and hair without looking to what she was doing, but she managed. She'd poked herself in the boob with a jagged fingernail by accident, and gotten shampoo in her eye, but the stinging—that she quickly scooped water from the faucet to handle without shutting her other eye—was nothing compared to the comfort of knowing for certain that he wasn't trying to sneak a peek.

Although, in a less serious situation, she might even find the man's ability to _not_ bother trying to look a little insulting.

She didn't know how much time had passed, but she only took as long as _strictly_ necessary to clean herself up—the water was an unsettling dark-red by the time she stood from the tub and grabbed the towel. Shaking off the repulsion that came with wondering just how long she'd been _that_ dirty, she focused on toweling herself off.

At the sounds of shuffling and rustling fabric behind him, Thorfinn said over his shoulder, "Oh, damn. And here I was _really_ hoping you'd break the ten-minute mark."

"You _really_ are foul," she said through lightly clenched teeth as she set the towel aside and reached for the robes.

"I _really_ have been called far worse."

Shaking her head, Hermione rolled her eyes and pulled on her robes. _God,_ Harry-mort should just kill her now, sticking her in traditional witch's robes, like this, without even undergarments, for pity's sake! She hated that the crimson velvet of the robes was actually soft and quite comfortable. She didn't want him doing _anything_ for her comfort; she wanted everything he did to make her loathe him _more_.

Of course, his entire policy of keeping her protected and unharmed shat all over that. And she was pretty sure the color of the fabric was selected on purpose, pointing out that she was a Gryffindor witch. All courage and righteousness in a . . . . In a whatever-this-place-was full of Death Eaters.

"I'm decent, now."

"Matter of opinion, that," he said as he opened the door and then turned to face her.

"I hate you so _bloody_ much, you know that?" She scowled at him, but was fully aware how menacing she meant for the expression to be was lost on him.

His broad shoulders shook with his chuckling as he crossed the tiled floor and scooped her up, once more. "Believe me, Sunshine, the feeling is mutual."

She continued scowling, her arms folded and not caring about his short jokes, as he carried her down the two flights of stairs back to the lower level. Before she reached her dungeon-chamber of a room, she found her curiosity getting the better of her.

"Where are we, anyway?"

He spared a moment to glance at her. "France. We are currently occupying an abandoned chateau."

That made sense. The French countryside was quiet and sparsely populated, at best. It was the _perfect_ area to stash a person—or, in this case, several persons—and not be found. "There were no acceptable hiding places closer to home?"

"I suspect he chose this place because it was built on top of _this_ ," he said, nodding about to indicate the ancient fortress-style lower level.

As he brought her into her room, she was very irritated to see Antonin Dolohov there. "God! _You_ , again?"

She started struggling once more at the sight of the other Death Eater, but Thorfinn Rowle was not having it. "Sunshine, you kick me in the jaw again and I swear, this time, I _will_ make you pay for it."

Grumbling and muttering under her breath, she stilled.

Antonin's brows shot up. "I'm actually sorry I missed the first time around."

Hermione knew from the way the wizard carrying her had tensed that it took some restraint on his part not to simply drop her on the bed. Now that there were two of them in the room, she accepted that struggling would only be a waste of her energy and sat quietly as Thorinn replaced the shackle around her ankle and locked it.

"Your turn," the Viking said to the other Death Eater, his tone jovial as he clapped his dark-haired friend on the shoulder. "Have fun."

She bristled at the interaction as she watched Thorfinn stride out of her line of sight—and after a moment, there was laughter from the next chamber.

"What the bloody hell was _that_ about, Greyback?" she yelled before she could stop herself.

"Sorry," he shouted back, the word followed by a pained and rasping cough. "Just . . . picked up on that, was all."

"Picked up on _what_?" she asked, aware that in her frustration at her situation, she nearly sounded like she was growling, herself. And at a _werewolf_ , for Heaven's sake!

He laughed again, though there was a clear edge of discomfort to the sound. "I'll tell you when you're not so feisty."

Folding her arms under her breasts, for the umpteenth time in the passing of what couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes, she turned her attention to Dolohov. He stood before the exam table, and she very much did not like that.

Especially not when he gave her an eloquent look and patted the table.

"Why?" she asked, her exasperation clear in her tone. "Honestly, Dolohov. I swear you just _like_ poking me with your wand!"

Only after the words had fallen from her lips—Antonin's dark brows arching high up on his forehead and another anguished laugh echoing from Fenrir in response—did she realize what she'd said.

Her teeth clenched hard, she balled her hands into fists at her sides on the bed. "God, you two! You _know_ what I meant! Why do I need another examine so soon? You _just_ checked on me last night!"

"Stayin' out of this one," Fenrir said in a whispered shout to the Death Eater in the room.

Narrowed chestnut eyes moved from the wall—which had the snarky werewolf on the other side of it—to meet Antonin's icy-blue gaze. There was a note of concern in his features that worried her.

"That wasn't last night." He shook his head, any responding questions she might've had were silenced as he stepped toward her. Antonin Dolohov knelt before her so that he was actually looking up at her from the bedside. "I'm to examine you because you were asleep for nearly _three_ days."

 _You were asleep quite a long time, Hermione._

Hermione swallowed hard as her eyes shot wide. She wanted to ask a million questions, but all she could do was gape back at him, wondering what the hell had really happened to her in those final moments just outside the battlefield.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Holding Antonin Dolohov's icy blue gaze, Hermione shook her head, forcing herself to speak. "Stop looking at me like that; makes me think you actually have the capacity for compassion."

He shrugged. "And there's a _chance_ you'd be right."

She stared at him until he finally rose to stand and retreated to the exam table, once more. "What actually happened to me?"

The slumping of his broad shoulders was visible from where she sat, watching him as he put his back to her to tinker and fuss with a tray of potions. "You recall the curse I struck you with during that battle in the Department of Mysteries?"

"Of course," she said, though she made an effort not to touch the too-well-remembered site of impact. "Not sure what makes that day stick in my mind more—Rabastan Lestrange bumbling around with a baby's head, or the scar you left me with."

There was the distinct sound of snickering from the next chamber. "Rabastan with a baby's head," Fenrir said in what seemed a whisper to himself. "Merlin, I wish I'd been there for _that_."

The witch and wizard ignored the pain-dazed werewolf.

Hermione was far too focused on the way Antonin was looking at her over his shoulder, one jet brow arched in a curious expression. " _My_ curse left you with a scar?"

Her face fell as she held his gaze, blinking stupidly at him. "You mean to tell me you don't know the effects of a curse _you_ crafted, yourself?"

Clearing his throat as he gave a shake of his head, Antonin said, "My curse is intended to sear from the inside. _No_ physical damage to the victim's body. However, you are the only person to have survived a direct hit from it, so . . . ." He shrugged and turned his attention back to the potions tray.

"I see. This has what to do with me sleeping for three days? Unless you struck me with it, again."

"No." He stepped aside, once more patting the exam table.

When he said nothing more, she realized he wasn't going to say another word until she complied. With an indelicate groan rattling out of her, Hermione stood and trudged across the floor to him—the sound of her chain scraping against the stone a bit unsettling.

Stepping around Dolohov, she lifted herself up onto the exam table and folded her arms under her breasts. "Well?"

"Rabastan has always wanted to learn that curse, but he's . . . a bit hot-headed—" Another round of snickers from the other chamber interrupted him.

"Ah, sorry, sorry," Fenrir called out. "She said the whole baby head thing, then you called him hot-headed. Just picturing Rabastan running around with a flaming baby head, now."

 _Now_ that he'd mentioned it, Hermione couldn't help imagining the same thing. She bit hard into her bottom lip to hold in a giggle. No, no, flaming baby heads were not laughable matters . . . Rabastan having a baby's head that was set ablaze was a different thing, entirely.

Antonin looked serious, but the way he'd folded his lips inward to form a thin line told the witch staring at him that he was probably attempting to hold in a laugh of his own.

With a shake of his head, the wizard drew a sobering breath. "I refused to teach him how to cast it, so he went about crafting his own version, based on his observations of _mine_. He's a bit volatile; tends to give his spells more of a bite than he usually intends."

"And so _he's_ the one responsible?"

Antonin nodded. "You're the only person to survive the direct strike of an otherwise lethal attack spell. _Twice_. Now, it could have been from something you interacted with that night in the Department of Mysteries that might afford you some protection against this sort of curse, or . . . ."

When he left off with a shrug, she couldn't help prompting him—anything to get past the fact that she'd just shared a giggle with a Death Eater and the werewolf who'd wanted to claim her as a _prize_ during the War. "Or what?"

Those pale eyes lifted from the tray he kept fiddling with to lock on hers. "Or it's just something about _you_."

"Uh-oh," Fenrir chimed in. "Caught that, too."

The witch frowned. " _What_ is he going on about with that?"

With a mirthless smirk, Antonin held up a finger. "Pardon me a moment, would you?"

Unsettled by his formality with her, she simply watched as he pivoted on a heel.

He strode toward the other prisoner. Curling himself around the bend in the wall between the chambers—a moment during which Hermione tried _not_ to notice that the wizard actually had a very nice bum—he proceeded to speak to the werewolf in a hissing, threatening-sounding whisper.

"Fine, fine, I'll be _quiet_."

Straightening, Antonin huffed out a sigh, before turning around and coming back to Hermione. "As I was saying, yes. Your long sleep was on account of your body's need to manage the brunt of the damage Rabastan's curse did to you. The scars are . . . ." He shook his head, frowning thoughtfully. "I never expected a survivor would have any lasting marks."

"Well, apparently, now I have _two_ , thanks very much."

His expression still thoughtful, he tapped his chin. "May I see them?"

Her brows shot up.

"Your scars," he said, uncertain why she was staring at him as though she hadn't understood a word.

"I know what you meant. Why?"

"Scientific curiosity."

She frowned at him.

Antonin shook his head, his expression serious. "I'm being sincere. You are the only surviving target of this form of magic, and you just presented me with an outcome I had not foreseen. Please?"

Hermione's shoulders slumped. He could always force her to show him, but he was _asking_. Shaking her head at the unexpected oddity of a Death Eater asking permission for _anything_ , she sighed.

"Fine, but _just_ the one on my back." Swallowing hard, she hopped down off the table. Putting her back to him, she opened her robes and lowered them off her shoulders and down, until she felt the soft velvet bunch at her waist.

Antonin pushed her damp, heavy locks over her shoulder to get a better look. Curiosity getting the better of him, he reached a hand toward the slash mark of seared skin that ran from her left shoulder blade and across to disappear beneath the fabric in the direction of her right hip.

The brush of his fingertips against her scar sent a shiver through her. She wanted to step out of his reach, but the bloody exam table was in her way.

"Could you not, please?"

Her tone made him arch a brow as he continued the delicate examination. "Am I hurting you?"

"No." She cursed herself the moment that word fell from her lips. It was honest, but she didn't want to have to say what the sensation _was_ that made her want him to stop.

"Oh." Clearing his throat, he straightened up. "It _does_ look like a burn. Is that how the other looks?"

Fixing her robes, the witch nodded. "Can we get on with the examination, now?"

"Certainly."

Like last time, he stood uncomfortably close as he examined her. Hermione didn't look at him, her gaze fixed on the stone tiles of the floor beyond his shoulder. Yet, she thought she could sense his eyes flicking up to watch her face as he went about his inspection of her injuries.

Like last time, his hip bumped her knee and as he worked. She didn't know if he even noticed the contact, which only bothered her more since she _did._

"You're healing well," he said, stepping back from her. "I'd say no more than a week or two before you're in perfect health, again."

"A week or two of being carried about like a useless little lump." She was not pleased with that idea. Maybe she could pester Thorfinn Rowle so much he'd drop her down a staircase and the fall would break her neck!

 _But no . . . ._ Her shoulders slumped. The Death Eaters were probably not willing to do _anything_ to anger their new Lord, not with the magic in him so strong, it was literally pouring out of him every second.

"Try to rest." With that, Antonin Dolohov turned on his heel and started away.

"Because there's oh _so_ much else for me to do here."

He nodded as he continued on. "I told you to keep that fire. Glad to see you _can_ listen."

She waited for his footfalls to start up the staircase before she hopped off the table. Gathering her chain and the length of her stupid traditional witch's robes in her hands, she made her way along the wall separating her chamber from Fenrir's. She hadn't forgotten about the werewolf's jokes with himself at her expense.

When she peered around the bend in the wall, she found Fenrir Greyback's amber eyes already on her, expectantly.

She also found that he'd not healed in even the smallest measure, despite that it'd been three days since the first time she'd seen him like this.

"Oh, don't look at me like that, Mudblood." He gave an uncomfortable cough as he shifted, his limbs still bound to the bed. "Might make me think you actually care."

"Why are you still such a mess?"

"New Dark Lord doesn't want me at full strength," he said, shrugging. "There's a stasis charm keeping me from healing."

A disgusted expression pinched her features. "That's horrible!"

"Yes, well . . . ." He shrugged again. "I did tell you I was stuck down here to be kept alive, didn't I?"

"What for? Why is he doing this to you?" She could not understand what plans this new, twisted version of Harry—Harry-Tom? Hom? Tarry? Rotter? Piddle? _Piddle!_ —had for them.

If he wanted to turn her into a werewolf—which was the only thing that made any sense at _all_ —why did that have to mean keeping Fenrir alive in this horrid state?

"Your guess is as good as mine."

She nodded. No wonder he was preoccupying himself with stupid jokes and finding humor in odd things. He had even fewer options to occupy his mind during their captivity than she did, and a mountain of pain from which to distract himself.

Clearing her throat, she focused on why she'd come over to his side of their happy little dungeon. "Anyway, you said you'd tell me what you found so funny when I wasn't so feisty. So?"

His brows drew upward. "This is you _less_ feisty?"

Again, Hermione nodded.

"Merlin, did I miss out when you got away from Malfoy Manor, then, huh?"

She held back on the sudden and sore temptation to poke at one of his wounds. " _What_ made you laugh?" she asked, pushing forward with the discussion, despite Fenrir's verbal antics.

A mischievous grin curved his lips. "Just wondering which one of them you want to shag."

Chestnut eyes shot wide as she gave a start. "Which of who I what?!"

"Oh, sorry," he said, feigning an apologetic look. "I didn't realize you were keeping that a secret from yourself."

"Wh—where would you even _get_ an idea like that?"

"From you . . . and them, incidentally. Werewolf nose."

Unfortunately, Hermione's incredibly logic-based mind immediately pulled together all the information he'd just given her. _Most_ werewolves did not have their canine senses unless they were shifted, but Fenrir Greyback was _not_ most werewolves. He was always a bit closer to the wolf than any other victim of lycanthropy she'd ever heard of, or read about.

It was actually very likely, then, that he _was_ able to detect things the humans around him couldn't, were that the case . . . . If he thought she wanted to shag anyone, it meant he'd picked up on an increase in pheromones in the air, caused by arousal. Hers _and_ theirs?

 _Madness!_

"I would sooner chew off my own leg for a chance to escape this place than shag _either_ of them. Now, if you'll excuse me." She spun on her heel, ignoring his mocking expression of disbelief at her words. "You know, I was _going_ to read to you to help you pass the time, but you can forget that, now!"

"You have books over there?"

She paused in the process of stepping away from him. He sounded curious and even a little excited at the prospect. She knew he probably wasn't much of a booklover, but the idea of anything to get around the numbing quiet and solitude was likely more than welcome.

"I was given a small collection of books, yes."

"Okay." There was the distinct sound of him swallowing uncomfortably. "I'll keep my mouth shut, if you read to me."

Hermione glanced back at him over her shoulder. "Really?"

Looking away, he shrugged, shifting against his bed a little. "If it's a good story."

Nodding, Hermione crossed her chamber to her bookcase in search of something they both might enjoy. "I suppose anything with a big bad wolf is out for you?" she called across to him.

Fenrir sputtered out a chuckle. "Actually those are my favorite."

Shaking her head, she drew a thick book of collected fairy tales from the stack. She sat in the chair that big, stupid Viking had occupied while she'd eaten her breakfast, opened the book in her lap and started reading aloud.

He probably got a kick out of it that the very first selection in the tome was _Little Red Riding Hood_.

* * *

Two weeks passed in precisely the same fashion. _Piddle_ harassing her every few days, Antonin Dolohov checking her injuries, and every bloody day, Thorfinn Rowle bringing her meals and carrying her to the washroom or bath when she required it.

Her time spent in the presence of either Antonin, or Thorfinn, and occasionally _both_ , was only made more tense—for her, at least, she knew—thanks to Fenrir's _helpful_ observation. Even as she exchanged verbal jabs with Thorfinn, she couldn't help but be aware of the feel of the muscles in his arms and chest as he held her close to tote her about the chateau.

She was irritated beyond _belief_ that the sound of that ridiculous, boisterous laugh of his occasionally popped into her thoughts for no reason, whatsoever. Infuriated that she'd become accustomed to the scent of him.

Antonin Dolohov's examinations became more about discussing spell mechanics and what ingredients might make certain potions more potent. The smirk that curved his lips when she got snippy with him was beginning to become reason enough to get snippy in the first place. She found herself examining the cool blue shade of his eyes when he wasn't really paying attention.

She stopped shying away from his touch at some point that she couldn't really recall.

Fenrir was good enough to keep his thoughts to himself on these unsettling developments, patiently listening to her reading, as was their arrangement.

The only thing that proved truly unsavory about her current state of being was Piddle's occasional visits.

* * *

At the end of that second week, Fenrir interrupted her reading.

"Listen, the next few days, I'm not going to be my charming self."

Forcing a gulp down her throat, she closed the book. "Full moon's coming, isn't it?"

"Yeah. I may not have a good view out a window, and the days have blended together, but I can _feel_ it."

"Are you scared your body won't be able to handle the shift the way it is?"

There was a distinct pause, but then he scoffed. "Scared? Me? You _clearly_ don't know me very well."

She snorted a giggle and shook her head. "Fine. Concerned, then?"

He sighed. Hermione imagined him nodding as he said, "Yeah. Yeah, I am."

* * *

Sometime the next evening, Hermione was roused from a nap by the scrape of metal against stone, shuffling and heavy footfalls. It was hard to keep to a regular cycle of sleep when every day was the same. She'd gotten in the habit of catnapping whenever the feeling struck. Opening her eyes, she sat up and pushed back her blanket, quick to get out of bed to investigate the sounds.

Beyond her chamber, in the main body of the old fortress, a cage was being pulled along. Inside the cage rested a wolf with a beautiful, snowy-white coat—from its prone state, she imagined it was probably drugged.

She could hear Fenrir growling and struggling against his restraints a new. Peeking around the bend, she saw that he'd angled his head on the bed to watch the cage. And he was _not_ happy with the site of the unconscious wolf.

The cage was brought into a chamber beyond Fenrir's. After the spectacle was over, Antonin Dolohov and Thorfinn Rowle emerged from that third section of the dungeon, engaged in some hushed conversation.

They each looked up in her direction at the same time, both falling silent. She didn't like that. Especially not when they passed Fenrir's chamber and entered hers.

Passing her without a word, Thorfinn took up the chair beside the bookcase. Antonin went to the exam table, patting it in reminder, as he always did. They both wore grim expressions that did not bode well, at all.

The Viking kept his gaze trained on the floor, and Antonin was silent as he gave Hermione her examination. She couldn't stop her gaze from darting back and forth between them, all the while.

Nodding, Antonin stepped back from her. "Perfect health," he said, but his tone was strangely hollow to her ears.

"That _is_ good news." Piddle's voice rang in Hermione's ears as he entered, seemingly on-cue.

She shrank back from him—as did the Death Eaters in the room, despite that they each had much in both height and weight on him. "What are you all doing in here?"

He grinned viciously as he leaned a shoulder against the wall, holding her gaze and folding his arms across his chest. "Waiting."

She didn't have to ask, but she did, all the same. "For what?"

"Moonrise."

Hermione didn't have time to process the terror of the expectant way he was looking at her before a pained howl tore from Fenrir's throat.

Without thinking, she jumped off the exam table and started for the other chamber to check on him. The voice of reason in her head screamed at her to hide somewhere, but her compassion reminded her that he might very well die simply in the process of shifting—he posed no threat as he was.

"Thorfinn, the Mudblood," the new Dark Lord said in that cold voice as he walked out of her chamber and into Fenrir's.

Thorfinn Rowle's arms closed around her and she was being pulled backward before she could react. "Sorry 'bout this, Sunshine," he said in rough tumble of words as he sat on the bed, securing her in his lap.

Before her eyes, Antonin withdrew a syringe from the potions supplies and disappeared, as well.

"Whatever's happening, please _don't_!" She struggled and fought against Thorfinn's hold as she pleaded.

"We're _not_ being given a choice," he whispered through clenched teeth. Lowering his mouth to her ear, he continued, "Now stop squirming like that or you and I are about to get a _lot_ closer."

The sound of whimpering echoed through the chamber as Hermione stilled. Turning her attention toward the awful noise, she saw the man who was once her best friend, dragging a shifted Fenrir Greyback in by the scruff of his neck.

The werewolf winced and whined as he moved along on all fours, the wizard's grip on him visibly unforgiving.

Antonin returned, the syringe full of what Hermione thought looked like blood plasma, from the thick cloudiness of the yellowish liquid. He looked exactly as contrite as Thorfinn sounded.

The golden-haired wizard tightened his arms around her as their Lord Potter dragged the werewolf closer.

She started struggling again, but the horrible man caught her wrist in an iron grip with his free hand. Barely coherent streams of words left her lips as she tried to pull her arm from his grasp.

Antonin and Thorfinn both averted their gazes as Potter dragged the injured werewolf just a bit closer . . . . And forced Fenrir's fangs into Hermione's skin.

She threw her head back against Thorfinn's shoulder and screamed, the pain of the bite searing through her.

Even after the fangs had been withdrawn, and Harry was pulling the poor creature back to his chamber, she couldn't stop the anguished shrieks tearing out of her throat.

Antonin crossed to her, his head shaking and his mouth pressed into a firm line as he took her wrist, his hold tight, but not unforgiving, as his Lord's had been. "I'm _so_ sorry," he said, his voice barely audible.

Thorfinn winced on her behalf, murmuring in her ear even as she screamed. "Brace yourself, Sunshine. This probably isn't going to tickle."

Inserting the needle into the open wound, the dark-haired wizard muttered to himself in Russian as he injected the liquid into her blood stream.

Antonin's curse and Bellatrix's _Crucio_ had _nothing_ on the blinding sensation that coursed through the witch's veins as she screamed, again.

Slowly, the pain began to recede. She became aware of a soft, rolling blackness edging her senses.

Thorfinn Rowle cradling her, and Antonin Dolohov on his knees before her to stare up at her, she twitched and trembled. The sensation of sweat beading on her skin made her itch a little.

Closing her eyes, she gave into that soft blackness and lost consciousness.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Hermione dragged her eyelids open, her vision fuzzy and her ears ringing. Her throat was dry and her lungs felt like they were made of sandpaper.

Swallowing hard—and wincing at the sensation—she struggled to sit up, but found she did not have the strength. There was the sound of a steady thudding beneath her ear, but beyond that, she heard howling, deep and mournful, and the sound of growling and struggling from the chamber beside hers.

She tried to, at least, raise her head, but there seemed a weight pressing to the top of it, holding her in place from even that small movement. Blinking hard to clear her blurry eyes, she noticed a tangle of blond locks, not far from her face.

Though she wasn't quite certain how, she managed to lift her hand and reach toward the golden strands, threading her fingers through them as her brow furrowed in question. The effort was exhausting and she just as quickly let her hand fall back into her lap.

Turning her head beneath the weight atop it, she saw Dolohov in the barely-there light of her chamber. He was in the chair beside her bookcase, looking rather uncomfortable as he snoozed there.

The sight brought her last memories thundering back to crowd her mind. The wolf, poor battered and transformed Fenrir, that awful injection . . . .

 _Now stop squirming like that or you and I are about to get a_ lot _closer._

Thorfinn Rowle's whispered voice in her ear as he held her. That mingled look of pain and concern in Antonin Dolohov's eyes as he watched her from the bedside.

Thorfinn Rowle holding her?

In an instant, the thudding beneath her ear and the tangle of gold in front of her face made sense. At some point after she'd passed out, he'd clearly shifted across the bed to rest his back against the wall, holding her still. Either she'd moved, or he'd moved her, but now she was sideways in his lap, curled into a ball against him. Her cheek pressed to his chest, she realized the weight atop her head was his chin and the thudding the beat of his heart.

Her frame sagged and her eyelids drooped. She'd barely done much of anything just now, but still the minimal activity drained her, and in moments, she was drifting back to sleep.

* * *

 _She must've shifted again, because she became distinctly aware of the sensation of his heartbeat pounding against her back. Hermione made a little rumbling sound of satisfaction deep in her throat in response as he sank his fingers into the hair at the back of her head and curled them into a fist._

 _Tilting her head back, he lowered his mouth, the tip of his tongue and the very edge of his teeth tracing along the pulse just below her ear. His free hand tore at her robes, pulling them from her easily._

 _She shivered at the rush of the cool night air against her exposed body. She tried to shift back into the heat of his solid form behind her, but he held her there, chuckling as the contrast of his warm breath against her throat raised goosebumps along her skin._

 _"Oh, no, no, Sunshine," he said when she tried again, his lips moving against her ear as he whispered. "You're not the one in charge, here."_

 _Hermione met his gaze over her shoulder, a growl edging her words as she answered. "_ You're _in charge, then?"_

 _With a savage grin, he nodded, shifting beneath her so that she felt the hardness of him against her._

 _The sensation stole her breath a moment. Licking her lips, she swallowed before she managed to say, "Prove it to me."_

 _He pulled her back against his chest, stealing a hungry kiss before pushing her forward, again. Tightening the fist in her hair, he used his grip on her to force her from his lap and onto her knees on the bed._

 _Rising up behind her, Thorfinn moved her, again, until she was bracing her elbows against the mattress._

 _A delicious coil of anticipation unwound low in her belly as she heard the rustle of fabric. She shivered in his hold, aware that he was using his free hand to open his robes._

 _But the Viking of a wizard proved to be a dreadful tease as he, instead of entering her, sank into her with only his fingers._

 _She turned her head as much as she could in his grasp, baring her teeth at him, even as he withdrew his hand and sank into her a few more times. "Stop teasing_ right _this minute!"_

 _He met her gaze, his expression severe. "Thought I told you I was in charge?"_

 _"Thought you realized you're only in charge if_ I _let you be!"_

 _Withdrawing his fingers for the final time, he nodded. "You have a point there, Sunshine. Was just checking that you're ready for me."_

 _Yet, he held back, again, and she knew it was deliberate. A show that he still had some power in this._

 _Only when she uttered a pained groaning sound and arched her back, lifting herself toward him, did he give in. Positioning himself with his free hand, he thrust forward, entering her._

* * *

Hermione started awake, panic and dull terror washing through her as she fought against the arms holding her. She couldn't seem to recall where she was, or how she'd gotten there.

All at once, the memories flooded back as she found herself still curled sideways in Thorfinn's lap. Antonin Dolohov had risen from the chair where he'd slept and was standing beside the bed, watching her with concern evident in his pale eyes.

Her robes were still on her, not a stitch of the fabric torn, and muted sunlight sliced through the bars of her window.

 _Only a dream . . . ._ She frowned as she allowed her weary arms to drop into her lap and gave up her struggle. Just a safe imagining. _Then why the bloody hell did I have to wake up right at the good part?!_

She tried to focus, though, giving her head a shake as she blinked hard. Thorfinn was talking to her, as was Antonin . . . or perhaps they were talking to each other? For a few heartbeats, she couldn't make sense of their words.

But it was daylight, which meant her fellow prisoner was human again—or as human as Fenrir could be. Yet, with how terrible he'd looked last night, shifted, but wounded so extensively . . . .

 _"Are you scared your body won't be able to handle the shift the way it is?"_

 _There was a distinct pause, but then he scoffed. "Scared? Me? You_ _clearly_ _don't know me very well."_

 _She snorted a giggle and shook her head. "Fine. Concerned, then?"_

 _He sighed. Hermione imagined him nodding as he said, "Yeah. Yeah, I am."_

"Greyback?" she called, aware her voice was tight with fear.

"Worried about me, Mudblood?" The werewolf shouted back, followed by that awful pained coughing that choked out of him whenever he raised his voice.

"Not anymore," she said, even as she blindly tried to shy away from one of the Death Eaters with her pressing a palm to her forehead.

"Good, you should save your strength, anyway. No need to fuss over me when you're dreaming what you just did."

She slapped the hand away. "How did you—?" She scowled, saying the words at the same time as Fenrir did. "Werewolf nose."

Someone caught her wrists in one hand and she finally looked up to see Antonin as he once more pressed a palm to her forehead. Avoiding her gaze, he looked to Thorfinn. "No good. The potions didn't help, either; she's burning up."

"Shit," the Viking holding her said from between clenched teeth.

Antonin reached around her, carelessly invading Thorfinn's personal space as he fished inside the other wizard's robes to retrieve the key to her shackle. "I have an idea, it's a little archaic, but c'mon." He shook his head, a frown tugging at his lips as he unlocked her.

Hermione didn't have time to ask, or voice a protest, before she found herself in the air and being carried from the chamber.

As they moved toward the staircase, Antonin glanced back at her. Something in his gaze . . . . she must be hallucinating from her fever, she decided, as the way he was looking at her hurt a little.

There was a jab of guilt that she'd dreamed such a thing about Thorfinn while Antonin slept only two meters away.

Oh, she _must_ be sick for either part of that thought to make sense!

Yet, as Thorfinn followed Antonin up the staircase and through the house to the next flight of steps, he seemed to refuse to look at her. The rare occasion his gaze skittered down to touch upon her face, he would immediately snap his attention away, again.

With a confused pout, she puzzled over that for only a moment. Even that was longer than it should've taken her, but her head felt cloudy.

Fenrir's comment about knowing what she'd dreamed, and the way both of the Death Eaters who's shared her sleeping space were looking at her suddenly made her wonder . . . . Had she made telling noises about that _horrifically_ inappropriate dream while it was happening?

A shiver wracked her, just in time to stop herself from cursing aloud at her own wayward imagination.

Antonin stormed into the bathroom ahead of them and headed straight for the tub. Running the water, he produced his wand, casting mild freezing charms at random intervals to chill the water without turning the entire tub into a block of ice.

When she realized what that archaic idea he'd mentioned was—her reactions dulled from her fever—Hermione started struggling, again. The shock, alone, was not something she thought she could manage. "No, no, no! _Please_ don't put me in there!"

Surprised by the outburst from the weakened witch, Thorfinn scrambled to keep a hold of her.

Uttering a little sound of anger, Antonin stomped over to them. He clamped his hands on either side of her face, forcing her to look at him. "You are reacting to the experiment _badly_. Potions haven't worked, healing spells haven't worked; it's the _only_ thing left I can think to do!"

It seemed beyond her capacity to believe that Antonin Dolohov was trying to save her life, but there it was. She shivered again, forcing a nod even as tears threatened at the prospect of being put in that tub.

His expression softened a little as he nodded back.

But then he stepped aside and motioned toward the tub, his gaze meeting Thorfinn's over her head. "Put her in."

* * *

Lord Potter looked up from the book he was studying at the now-familiar sound of Hermione Granger screaming. With a weary sigh, he shook his head and closed the book.

Setting it aside, he rose from the tattered chaise in the second floor study and started toward the sound. The screams quieted as he got closer, but were replaced by uncomfortable groans.

He stepped into the bathroom, arching a brow at the sight of the soaked witch sitting in the tub, fully-robed and shivering. Dolohov knelt beside her, patting her face with a damp wash cloth as he spoke to her in a hushed tone.

Rowle stood by, his arms folded and his expression strained as he looked on. Oddly, the large wizard's hair seemed wet, possibly as though the diminutive witch might've tried to drag him into the water with her.

"Someone want to explain this mess to me?"

Hermione muttered notably angry sounding words, but didn't even look at him. Dolohov paused in his ministrations as his icy eyes snapped up to lock on his Lord's face.

Clearing his throat, Rowle spoke up. "Trying to bring down her fever, My Lord. Nothing else was working."

His face pinching in displeasure, Lord Potter turned on his heel to pin the other Death Eater with his crackling, green-eyed gaze. "Is it _helping_?"

Swallowing hard, Dolohov pressed a palm to her forehead, then touched the back of his hand to each of her cheeks, followed by the sides of her throat. He let out a heavy breath as his shoulders slumped, nodding.

"Good. Can't believe you didn't stop this before she got _this_ bad, Dolohov!"

Antonin closed his eyes. "My Lord, I swear I tried—"

"I have no use for your excuses. She is _too_ important!"

"Why is that?" Hermione's voice, small and shivering as it was, seemed to cut through the room.

All three wizards turned their attention to her. She was looking into the icy water in which she was submerged, ignoring the tremors wracking her.

"Why am I too important?" she asked, clarifying. "You've already done whatever it was you wanted to do to me, right? So what's the point in keeping it a secret now?"

With a quiet exhalation, he crossed the floor. Stooping to his knees behind her, he draped his arms around her shoulders, laughing when she shuddered at the touch, especially since she was clearly too weak to fight him off.

"Oh, dear Hermione, we still have to wait and see if it even worked," he said, his mouth disturbingly close to her ear—she could actually feel the brush of his facial hair against her skin. "Which probably won't even be obvious until the next full moon. Your body needs time to adjust to what it is, now."

"You turned me into a werewolf, didn't you? What's so special about that?"

" _If_ this works," he went on in a cooing tone, his fingers dipping around her to drag in the chilled water, "then you will be so much _more_ than a simple werewolf."

She lifted her gaze, meeting Antonin's, and then Thorfinn's, before dropping her attention back to the water. "Because of the blood plasma from that wolf you injected me with? Is she special?"

Piddle chuckled in her ear. "Tell me, Hermione . . . . How did you _know_ that wolf was a she?"

Her brow furrowed as she thought on that. "I—I didn't. I just . . . guessed."

"Tell you what, you will be observed closely as this moon passes, and the next draws near. The more signs I have that my experiment is a success, the more tidbits of information I will give you about what I've done."

She was frustrated by the lack of answers, but relieved that he slipped his arms from her and stood.

"Get her out of there before you undo the help you just gave her," he snapped before turning on his heel and leaving the room.

A few strained heartbeats of silence ticked by before Thorfinn grabbed a towel. He tossed it to Dolohov. "Can you manage her while I go pester the witches about fresh robes for her?"

Antonin nodded, not moving until the other wizard left the room. Draping the towel over his shoulder, he stood, holding his hands down to Hermione.

Gripping her fingers around his, she pulled herself from the water on unsteady legs. She wobbled as she stepped from the tub, her soaked robes making a hell of a mess on the tiled floor, she was certain.

"Could . . . could you look away?"

He only stared at her a moment, blinking, before he realized why she was asking. "Oh, oh. Sorry." Clearing his throat awkwardly, he turned away once he was certain she could stand on her own for at least as long as relieving herself of her drenched clothing would take.

Hermione bit hard into her lip as she tried to control the way her body was shaking. She pulled off the sopping robes and immediately grabbed the towel from where it hung over his shoulder.

Not wasting the time to dry her skin, she simply wrapped the warm, fluffy cotton around herself. The towel was large enough that it covered her from under her arms to below her knees.

"Okay."

Turning to face her, he kept his gaze averted. "Do you think you can walk on your own?"

"Oh, I certainly think—" She cut herself off as she took a step and her legs gave way beneath her.

Antonin swooped down, catching her before she could hit the floor.

"Okay, I apparently think _not_ ," she said, shaking her head. Bloody hell, she was _really_ starting to hate this damsel in distress bullshit Piddle was forcing her to go through.

"Probably won't be as smooth of a ride as being carried by Rowle, but c'mon." Despite his words, he scooped her up rather easily and started from the room.

Hermione kept her mouth shut on whatever he might've been insinuating with his comment. She had no idea what she may or may not have said in her sleep, and really thought perhaps she didn't _want_ to understand why he seemed upset with her, or why she felt guilty.

They were silent as he carried her down the stairs and through the chateau's first floor. With a hushed sigh, she put her cloudy head down on his shoulder and closed her eyes. The motion was making her dizzy.

Down the next flight and into her chamber, he continued.

"She all right?" Fenrir asked in a whispered shout.

"She'll live; now you hush up and rest."

The werewolf grumbled something unintelligible, but then feel quiet.

Antonin settled her on her bed, carefully pulling the blankets up over her. As he stepped back, he was surprised to find her stopping him, her delicate fingers circling his wrist.

Meeting her gaze was a mistake, he realized, especially with her chestnut eyes swimming as they were.

"Please don't leave me alone," she said in that same small and shivering voice she'd used upstairs.

Nodding, Antonin tried to step back toward the chair, but she clung tighter to his arm, her head shaking.

Hermione understood she was being forward, but she couldn't help it. She knew she needed the comfort— _and_ the body heat.

"You're sure?"

She nodded, tugging on his wrist.

Letting out a breath, he carefully laid himself on the bed beside her, but stayed above the covers, even as he gathered her into his arms.

He ignored the awareness that Thorfinn would be there with her fresh, dry robes any moment as the exhausted witch fell asleep against him. Eyeing the chamber's wide entryway, he listened carefully.

Footfalls sounded at the top of the steps, and he took the moment this left him to press a kiss to the top of her damp hair.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Hermione awoke in a haze to the unfamiliar—although, becoming less so by the day, now, it seemed, what with how she'd last woken up cradled in Thorfinn Rowle's lap—feeling of arms around her. She lay curled on her side, her head pillowed on a chest, the steady thudding of a heart beneath her ear.

But it was not Thorfinn's heart. She didn't know how she was so certain, but she could simply tell it was a different sound . . . a different . . . resonance. She wasn't even certain that made sense.

The fuzzy memory drifted through her mind of asking Antonin Dolohov to stay with her.

She moved her head, her cheek rubbing against his chest as she lifted her gaze to look at him. The darkness of the room told her easily it was night, but she had an odd sense she'd have known, even if she'd kept her eyes closed. Despite the lack of illumination, however, she could see he was sleeping.

She could hear the fitful breaths of Fenrir in the next chamber; it sounded like he'd managed to fall into a restless slumber. God willing, he'd manage to get some genuine sleep—she hated that _Piddle_ had turned her life so upside down that she could feel sympathy for Fenrir Greyback—as she was not sure how much longer his body could hold out while he was kept in that constant, terrible, state of not-healing.

Thorfinn, however, was not here. Hermione didn't need to scan the surrounding darkness to know, she could just feel that he was, instead, on one of the floors somewhere above their heads. She wasn't sure how she knew, she simply did.

Just as she knew it felt odd that he was not down here with her and these other two males.

She pushed it out of her mind as her gaze traced over Antonin's features. Tomorrow she could puzzle over these bizarre, unfamiliar bits of awareness.

He was so calm, serene—she supposed that should be no surprise as he was sleeping . . . . But he was sleeping so peacefully with a witch he'd twice tried to kill in his arms. Perhaps that sort of thing was nothing new for Death Eaters?

In a way, she thought him rather an odd looking creature. Some of his features were so delicate, almost feminine, but not in any way that could _actually_ be mistaken for female. Maybe it was his jaw . . . . He had a very strong jaw, almost too-wide to suit his face.

Hermione didn't notice that she was shifting against him. Unaware she was moving at all, she lifted herself slowly toward the object of her scrutiny.

Actually, now that she was thinking about it, it was a rather _lovely_ jaw.

* * *

Antonin's pulse quickened as he woke to the sensation of teeth raking his skin. Snapping open his eyes, he angled his gaze downward.

There was Hermione, her own eyes closed in a serene expression as she nipped and bit at his jaw and his chin, as though it was the most normal thing in the world.

He knew this was a result of their Lord Potter's _experiment_ , reason told him that. But he had not expected her more . . . feral instincts to kick in so fast.

And, though he knew he _should_ stop her, he wasn't so certain he wanted to. Especially not now, as, between nips, she darted out her tongue to stroke his skin.

Antonin exhaled sharply, willing his arms not to hold her tighter to him. He really didn't want to stop her, but he knew she'd probably kill him the next time he fell asleep in her presence if he didn't.

She shifted her body against his and he winced. Oh, yes, he _definitely_ needed to put a stop this, now, as she was quickly pushing him toward a point of being unable to reason with himself.

Opening his arms wide, allowing her the freedom to pull away—as he was certain the sound of his voice was going to startle her into backing away from him—he said, "Hermione?"

The witch made an unhappy rumbling noise in the back of her throat and tilted her head. She scraped her teeth along the pulse below his ear and shifted against him, again, as though trying to get closer, still, through the layers of quilt and towel and clothing separating them.

He sank his teeth into his bottom lip, holding in a groan as he let his head roll back against the pillow. This was it, he thought, as he felt her delicate fingers curl into the fabric of his robes, this was how she was going to get him back for those previous attempts on her life, because _this_ was surely going to be the death of him.

God, he didn't want to stop her . . . . but he was aware she'd never forgive him in the morning if he didn't. Just a short while ago, he could not imagine caring about forgiveness, _or_ the next morning—dear Lord, this witch was ruining him.

Slipping his fingers around her wrists, he pried her hands from his robes as he said again, "Hermione."

"Hmm?" Finally lifting her head, she opened her eyes, an obvious haze in them as she met his gaze.

Furrowing his brow he only watched her as that haze cleared . . . . As she realized what she'd just been doing.

"Oh, God," she said, pulling back and tugging her wrists from his grasp. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what just came over me!"

Yet, her words seemed lost on him. Hermione frowned, wondering why his brows had shot up, his gaze having diverted from her own rather rudely.

Then, she realized she did not feel the twisted tuck of the towel over her breasts. Following his gaze, she saw that not only had her towel fallen open, but when she'd pulled back from him, it created a gap in the quilt . . . giving him full view of her lady-bits.

With a startled gasp, she covered herself with one arm, and shoved against Antonin's chest with the other. He tumbled backward off the bed, letting out a surprised _oof_ as he hit the floor.

Looking about, she saw the witch's robes Thorfinn had brought for her draped across the foot of the bed. Which meant he'd seen her asleep in Dolohov's arms. She imagined that was going to make things no less tense with him than they'd been with Antonin yesterday after she'd awoken from that _highly_ inappropriate dream about Thorfinn.

She muttered a half-arsed apology as she snatched up the robes and hurried to struggle into them.

"Ow . . . ." Antonin said with a frown as he pulled himself to sit up.

"Oh, my _God_ , you two!" Fenrir's voice was the sound of exhaustion, itself, as it carried across from his chamber into Hermione's. "I hope you're more quite than this when you _actually_ get around to shagging!"

She bared her teeth—Antonin might not have noticed the ferocious expression, if he'd not been staring up at her, the vantage point allowing him to catch the flash of her teeth in the darkness—as she hollered at the injured wolf. "Really? Funny, seems like you'd be the type to want _that_ sort of activity to be loud enough for you to overhear."

He chuckled. "Oh, not in my current situation, being _immobilized_ , and all, you feisty little brat!"

The witch snickered, but the sound was edged with a rumbling tone . . . more like a growl. Antonin swallowed hard, aware, rather suddenly, that he was in a catacomb with two werewolves. She was not anywhere close to turning, _yet_ , but . . . .

He watched her laughing, heard Fenrir's continuing chuckles, as though they were sharing some joke he hadn't heard. Dear _God_ , he was so stupid!

"I have to go," he said, scrambling to his feet.

Hermione shot out her hand, instinct ruling the action. Only when her fingers were latched around his wrist, did she seem to notice what she'd done.

Swallowing hard, the mirth from only a moment ago faded from her eyes. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I keep doing that."

His shoulders slumping, he patted his free hand over hers as he extracted his arm from her grip. "I think I do, but I need to perform another exam. In the morning, for now you need to rest."

She nodded, letting him set her hand in her lap. She couldn't believe she wanted to protest, but she didn't want to be done here alone. Fenrir was with her, but she could not get close enough to him. She didn't want to be without Antonin _or_ Thorfinn, and how stupid was that! She was not dependent on them in any such way, so why did she feel like this?

Hermione needed to think, and it was quite clear her brain was exhausted. There was also the chance she might not be able to think straight, as it was, around either of them right now, anyway.

He was right, she needed to rest.

Holding his gaze, she pulled up her quilt and settled into her bed. "Goodnight."

Antonin nodded as he backpedaled toward the mouth of the chamber. "Goodnight." Only when he stepped into the wider, main chamber of the catacomb did he finally turn away from her to start for the staircase.

After his footfalls reached the top of the steps and vanished into the first floor of the chateau, Fenrir said, "You could've made him stay."

"I know, but it wouldn't have been right."

Fenrir fell quiet—blessedly—and Hermione puzzled over her behavior, over her strange new feelings and thoughts. She wanted them _all_ close. And she was just barely refraining from standing up on her bed to put her face between the bars of her narrow window.

The only coherent notion from _that_ was that the scent of the wind through the grass and trees outside might calm her. It was the same reason she wished she could go into that chamber beyond Fenrir's and assure herself that the beautiful white wolf she'd seen was all right.

She actually thought she could hear its soft, slumbering breaths even from this distance.

"Greyback?"

"Mudblood?"

Squeezing her eyes shut, she forced a gulp down her throat. "What's happening to me?"

Surprisingly, he was quiet for a while—surprising, because he seemed to have no shortage of things to say at any given moment—before he said, in a somber tone, quite unlike what she was used to hearing from him, "I think you already know."

There. Just another sign of how utterly the thing inhabiting her best friend's still-breathing corpse had twisted her life into something completely unrecognizable that she'd just heard sympathy for _her_ in Fenrir's tone.

Hermione bit her lip to hold in a sob as she turned on her bed to bury her face in her pillow.

* * *

"Had a nice nap, did you?"

Antonin could not be bothered to look up as he scanned the notes he'd been making since the start of this mess. He'd kept detailed account of every examination he'd performed on her over these weeks—including, and especially, following her injection.

He could not be concerned with the mild, chiding scorn in Thorfinn's voice. "I didn't make a fuss when she woke up moaning and squirming in your lap, I should think you could handle me holding her with a bloody quilt between us with much the same sense of aplomb."

Thorfinn's brows shot up. Yes, he shouldn't even be awake now, it was the middle of the bloody night, but he'd had trouble sleeping. Nothing to do with the thought that she'd been dosing peacefully, all cuddled up with the other wizard when he'd brought her those robes. Nothing at _all._

"I'm not making a fuss."

At that, Antonin glanced up to meet the taller man's gaze, one brow arched as he snorted a derisive laugh.

"What are you doing, anyway?" Thorfinn asked as he crossed the room to catch a glimpse of the notes over Antonin's shoulder, choosing to ignore the matter.

Antonin shook his head as he continued looking over his hastily scrawled words. "She and Fenrir were . . . bonding."

Frowning thoughtfully, it was now Thorfinn's turn to arch a brow. "So? They've been doing that since we came here."

"No, no . . . it was different, this time. There was some sort of unspoken communication going on between them, like—"

"Like wolves."

With a shoulder-slumping sigh, Antonin nodded. "I stayed with her because she insisted, and I don't think it was because she's afraid to be alone. I think it was because she felt like she _needed_ one of us with her."

Thorfinn's brow furrowed. "What in three hells are you going on about?"

"She's been around the three of us, consistently, for weeks—and only the three of us. You've noticed the Lord's visits with her are infrequent, completely random. I had wondered if there was a purpose behind that. You, Fenrir, me . . . . I had considered that, provided our Lord's experiment was successful, she might think of _us_ as pack when she became more . . . . _wolfy_."

"If you keep making me ask things, instead of just finishing telling me what's going on, I swear I'm going to chuck your arse out the nearest window."

Snapping shut his book full of parchment scraps, he turned his full attention on the taller wizard. "She's _already_ seeing us as pack—God help us, we're just lucky she doesn't consider Lord Potter her alpha, or something. She's _already_ communicating silently with another werewolf. She is _already_ thinking more like a wolf than even she realizes."

Thorfinn's jaw fell open, realization dawning in his expression. "Her fever. She _wasn't_ dying, was she?"

Antonin shook his head. "I don't think she was, no. I think whatever transformation _he's_ hoping for with this experiment was happening faster than he expected."

"So tell him." Thorfinn frowned, shaking his head. "It's the only way to put an end to this madness and get us all out of this hellhole."

Inhaling deep through his nostrils and letting it out slow, Antonin shook his head. "If he knows it's already working, he's going to dispose of Fenrir. She's already thinking like a wolf. If he kills Fenrir, and she finds out _we_ were the reason, she may turn on us, pack or no pack."

Thorfinn sighed, his head falling back to stare daggers at the ceiling. "And I thought she was a feisty thing _before_. That little she-wolf would tear out our damned throats."

His dark brows shooting up, Antonin nodded in agreement.

"But, of course, this also means if Lord Potter finds out we're being . . . less than forthcoming, he's going to torture us to death."

Again, Antonin nodded.

After a moment sharing an exasperated look, Thorfinn uttered a sad chuckle. "Merlin's beard, we're both so stupid that we're more willing to risk his wrath than hers, aren't we?"

" _So_ stupid," Antonin said, puffing out his cheeks as he exhaled.

Thorfinn knew, somehow, something about this experiment was causing Hermione's pack mentality to affect them, too. "God, that little witch is ruining us."

Hearing his own thought from earlier echoed by Hermione's _Viking_ , Antonin could only chuckle—at himself, at their bizarre situation, at everything, really—as he nodded, yet again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Short chapter this time. My apologies, but there might need to be short chapters on this fic from here on out, in order to keep it moving forward. This does not mean there will not be longer chapters in the future, but for the time being, please do not expect them.**

* * *

 **Chapter Six**

Fenrir started awake. It was just as well, he supposed, as he could never really rest in his perpetually wounded mode of being. Pain was nothing new for him, but _now_ . . . now it was a constant companion, edging his every breath, joining along in every heartbeat.

What had woken him, however, was something he was not quite accustomed to. His other companion stood at the bend in the wall between their chambers, just as she had that first night. In the twilight darkness of the chateau's dungeon-like cellar, the dim illumination granted him a glimpse of her features. She was focused, yet also appeared in a mildly-dreamy state, like she was half asleep, even as she stood there.

But her attention was not on him. Her gaze was fixed down the wide main corridor, toward the chamber at the end.

They could both hear it, the muffled whining of that snowy-furred wolf. A majestic canine, kept against its will. He tried not to laugh at the irony—that three fierce creatures such as they should be so completely helpless.

As usual, his bizarre, seemingly constant amusement won out, and a chuckle rumbled out of him. But, also as usual, the mirthful sound ended in a pained, rattling cough.

"You know it takes far too much out of you to laugh at everything," she said, her voice low and calm.

"Oh, stop your fussing, or I might think you're actually concerned for me."

Finally turning her attention on the incapacitated werewolf, Hermione frowned thoughtfully. "Maybe I am . . . ." She shrugged. "Just a little, anyway."

His brows shooting up, he shifted beneath his restraints, trying to get at least little comfortable. Of course, that _never_ worked, but he kept trying. "That's unexpected."

Again, the witch shrugged. "Not really. We've been stuck down here together for weeks, and forced through traumatic situations together. That sort of thing can foster understanding, and even a feeling of kinship between even the most stalwart of enemies."

"You're aware that sometimes talking to you is a bit like carrying on a conversation with a text book?"

A smirk curved her lips as she nodded, sparing a moment to scratch at her ankle—or at least, at as much of the skin beneath her manacle as she could reach. The iron clamp was loose enough that she could get her fingernails under it, but not nearly so much that she could slip free. Well, not unless she was of a mind to gnaw off her own foot, and she wasn't nearly wolf-like enough for that sort of behavior to seem a viable option, yet.

"I like to think that's my charm, thanks very much," she said, a tone that was a mix of whimsy and exhaustion in her voice.

Fenrir laughed, again, earning him yet another smirk from her as it caused him to cough, once more.

"What is it this time?"

"Oh, just thinking that if I can gauge by your pretty-boy wizards' reactions around you, lately . . . . Well, lets just say bookishness isn't your only _charm_."

Hermione entire demeanor seemed to shift, then. She swallowed hard as she darted her gaze about. "I'm sure I've no idea what you mean."

The werewolf rolled his eyes. As much as he enjoyed their banter, as much of a little thrill as he got from toying with her, this had been going on for weeks, and since he was hardly in a position to shag the witch, himself, he was fast running out of patience with all three of them.

"What I mean, you terrible liar, is I'm fairly certain either one of them would be _quite_ happy to offer you a seat . . . on their face."

" _What_?"

Her shrill tone brought another excruciating laugh from him. Though, she had to know playing ignorant would only go so far, what with that curious, heady little hint of a scent curling off her just now, after she'd had a split-second to register his words.

"No, you're right." He nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Dolohov would welcome the face-sitting, Rowle does seem a bit rougher, doesn't he? Probably more likely to throw you down on the nearest surface and devour you, that one. I mean, it's what I'd—"

"Fenrir Greyback, you are just horrible!" Despite her words, she was keenly aware of the teasing shiver she'd gotten listening to him.

"I think you've gone and mispronounced _honest_ , there, Mudblood. And you may deny it, but your scent tells me you're _very_ much liking the way I think."

Hermione could feel a growl rumbling in the back of her throat. What was worse, her stupid heightened instincts, that seemed intent on forcing her toward both of them as it was, had images to match his words running through her mind.

And it was hardly as though she could lie to Greyback—not when he could tell what she was really feeling so easily.

"I can't help it, all right?" she said in a pleading voice, even as she tried to push away the sweet, rippling warmth that tormented her as she pictured kneeling over Antonin Dolohov . . . . Seeing those cool, pale eyes drift closed as he lost himself in the taste of her.

Of Thorfinn Rowle demanding her attention in that almost brutish way of his, plucking her up, straight into the air off of the other Death Eater, and throwing her down on the bed. . . . . Of not giving her even the space of a heartbeat to catch her breath before he dropped down and buried his face between her thighs, emitting wonderful, gruff noises as he _devoured_ her.

Forcing a breath, she gave herself a shake. Ignoring the knowing smirk curving Fenrir's lips, she said, "It's infuriating. I barely have control of my own thoughts. Why am I feeling this way?"

Again, he shifted in discomfort beneath his bindings. "Mudblood, please, you're thinking on this entirely too hard. Look, it's simple, you're attracted to them, you've been around pretty much only them for weeks, now, and you're turning unsettlingly fast, so its only natural your instincts are pushing you to look at one of them as your mate."

" _Mate_?" she echoed, once more with that borderline screeching tone.

"Fine, to work out frustrations with? Shag your brains out? Whatever makes it more palatable for you. Point is, yes, you _already_ want to shag them, plain and simple, and that tiny little glimmer of a wolf growing inside you is wondering why you've not just picked one, yet, and had at him."

She shook her head, the words tumbling from her lips before she'd even thought her response through. "Because I want both."

Fenrir's brows shot up, but he bit his lip— _hard_ —to hold in another chuckle at her expense at the way her eyes shot wide. He couldn't help that he found it hilarious how much she'd just surprised herself, because it _was_ hilarious.

"That . . . sounds like a _you_ problem, there. But, seriously, get your shit straight."

She didn't want to choose between them. Worse? She didn't feel the slightest bit selfish or guilty for wanting them both. Hermione forced her thoughts away from her reluctance to pick one of them over the other—from her steadily growing desire for each of them, altogether.

Her shoulders slumping, she sagged against the bend in the wall, ever so slightly. "Why does this even matter to you, at all?"

He sighed. "In my state, there's not much more I can do than live vicariously through you sad lot."

The witch frowned, nodding as she sighed, as well. "That makes a depressing amount of sense, actually."

"Doesn't it just?"

Silence fell across the subterranean chamber, punctuated only every few moments by the faint, subdued whining of the white wolf. Hermione shuffled her feet as she dropped her gaze to the ground. Fenrir started making a bored, smacking sound with his lips.

She tried to ignore wondering what their imprisonment might be like, were he not restrained and perpetually injured. More so, she was trying to ignore the strange sense that he was wondering the very same thing.

"So, another book?"

"Yes, please," he said, his always exhausted voice edged with relief.

With a nod, and a wash of relief of her own coursing through her, Hermione turned on her heel and started for her bookcase.

* * *

Sometime later that day, Thorfinn and Antonin descended the staircase, as per usual, to bring her a meal and examine her in the wake of her fever breaking.

Though they rarely startled her, as they neared her chamber to see her sitting on the floor, the book open in her lap, they found her staring up at them. The most curious flare of color bloomed in her cheeks as she darted her wide-eyed gaze between them over and over.

Antonin and Thorfinn both arched a brow, sharing a confused glance, before returning their attention to the witch.

Neither of them were certain they wanted to know what Fenrir was laughing at this time as his familiar, pain-tinged snickering filled the air.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Hermione was a nervous wreck . . . . Well, not exactly. A _wreck_ was a bit of an overstatement. She _was_ nervous, though. Days had passed since that awkward and revealing conversation with Fenrir, and now, whenever she was alone with Antonin or Thorfinn, or worse, with both of them at once, she couldn't help her mind tripping back to those damnable images Fenrir's words had put there.

Nervousness was not in her nature as of late, but she couldn't help the knots coiling in the pit of her stomach that she would say or do something to give away the shift in her feelings toward them. The mess with squirming in Thorfinn's lap when she'd fallen asleep, or the neck-nipping incident with Antonin could both easily be explained away by her new instincts taking over when she was asleep.

But when she was wide awake and—mostly—in control of her words and actions?

She sighed, turning her head against her pillow as she stared about in the twilight darkness of her chamber. It was a bit unnerving how much clearer her lowlight vision had become since the bite. She could actually discern the pattern of the dulled, antiquated brickwork in the barely-existent illumination.

The sound of Fenrir's slumbering breaths against the otherwise quiet night, hindered only slightly by his constant pain, was lulling. Hermione wasn't quite certain why she couldn't sleep, but the occurrence of insomnia was becoming more common as the days passed.

She refused to acknowledge that—though, she was painfully aware her refusal was a form of acknowledgement all on its own—perhaps she was having so much trouble sleeping because her mind was elsewhere. That, maybe, she couldn't sleep because she was focused on the two wizards slumbering some floors overhead.

That she felt, for some totally and completely irrational reason, they should be down here. They should be curled around her, _their_ slumbering breaths lulling her to sleep as their warm bodies cradled hers.

The sudden creak of a foot on the staircase rang in her ears, and Hermione lifted her head. Eyeing the wide entryway of her chamber, she blindly reached toward the bookcase. Though, from this far, she struggled to get a good hold of one of the spines, she managed, sliding a thick volume free from its shelf and hefting it back.

She'd not seen _Piddle_ in days, and she didn't trust that it wouldn't be him, creeping down here to watch her as she slept. To gauge how well she was adjusting to the effects of his so-called experiment.

Well, since he required her continued existence and so the most she might have to fear was a wrathful few moments of a _Cruciatus,_ she was going to make her displeasure with her situation abundantly clear by cracking him in the head with that book the moment his face came into view in the darkness.

She listened to the footfalls continue down the steps and round the column. They drew closer, and she tightened her grip, her eyes narrowing as she focused.

Yet, her gaze fixed on where she knew the vile creature's head would be due to Harry's height, a robed chest came into view, instead. She immediately shifted her attention to the figure's face.

She'd not expected to see Thorfinn Rowle. His long golden hair tied back rather sloppily, he clasped one hand around his dully-illuminated wand—she would guess he'd intentionally muted his _Lumos_ so as not to wake the unwilling occupants of the chateau's cellar. Around his other hand, she could see the wind of a bandage that he appeared to be trying to tie with his teeth.

She dropped the book noiselessly to the bed beside her pillow. "Thorfinn?"

Her whisper startled him, the end of the bandage falling from his mouth as he lifted his gaze to hers. "Oh, um . . . . Oh."

Hermione's brows shot up at his response. Sitting up, merely stared at him for a few quiet heartbeats. "Oh?" she echoed, tipping her head to one side. "'Oh, I didn't mean to wake you,' or 'Oh, it's not what it looks like, Sunshine, I don't creep down her to watch you sleeping."

He chuckled, shaking his head at her. "Someone clearly thinks much of herself."

There was something there. Something in the air? Something in his . . . in his scent? She wasn't sure, but she had some sense that he wasn't being wholly honest in his flippant brushoff. "Tell me I'm wrong."

"I wasn't coming down here to watch you sleep. I was . . . ." Dropping his already murmuring voice lower, still, he entered the chamber. When he reached the side of her bed, he went on. "I was coming to check on the wolf. I'm, well, I'm worried about her. And . . . maybe I was going to check on you to make sure you were sleeping okay, but that was _not_ my main objective."

Sighing, she nodded. "Well, that's a relief, I suppose." She wouldn't tell him, but she found it endearing that he was concerned for the wolf, but she let her focus drift to his hand. "What did you do to yourself?"

Lifting his hand in the spare illumination, he grunted a sound that was almost a laugh. "Well, let's just say it was the wall, or our delightful new Dark Lord's face, and I had a feeling I'd fare better against the wall. He's . . . he's just _so_ much more of an _arse_ than his previous self."

"Oh, you big, silly, Viking," she said with a tired snicker—she would ignore that she felt like she could sleep now, because that could only mean it was because one of them was with her. "Sit down and let me have a look."

Thorfinn tried not to make it obvious how he glanced from her to the bed, and back, before complying. He tried not to focus too hard on her wild hair as she tipped her head down, over his hand—that she'd dragged into her lap, for pity's sake. He tried not to think on the feel of her fingertips dragging along his skin as she unwrapped the poorly wound bandage.

Sitting so close, he was too aware of sudden shiver wracking her. "What is it?"

Hermione tried to steel herself against the instant rush of feelings—his nearness, his voice in her ear, the scent of him—and failed. Swallowing hard, she couldn't stop herself from looking up at him as she held his bloodied hand between both of hers in that dull light.

"I just . . . ." She swallowed, again, holding his blue-eyed gaze as a rush of warmth zipped through her. " _You_ just smell divine."

Thorfinn knew she was probably talking about his blood. That it was something in her new instincts making her think of how appealing he'd be as prey.

Yet, he somehow found himself leaning closer to her. Closer, until he could feel the rush of her breath against his skin.

Closer, until she dipped her head back just a little and moved to meet him, her lips pressing to his.

* * *

Antonin rubbed his fist against one bleary eye as he made his way back toward his room from the toilet. Half-asleep, he really wasn't sure how he'd even managed to get there in the first place . . . .

A sharp, unpleasant jarring sensation rocked through him, forcing him wide awake, as he passed Thorfinn's bedroom door—his _open_ bedroom door. He didn't need to duck his head inside to know the room was empty.

He had a pretty good idea where the other wizard was at such an hour.

Shaking his head, he knew he should simply return to his room. Whatever might be happening in the chateau's cellar was none of his business, now was it? What Hermione chose to do, or with whom, was none of his business, didn't he know that?

Yet, it seemed he couldn't stop himself from making his way toward the staircase.

* * *

She pulled back, looking up at him. Her brown eyes were huge in the darkened room as she held his gaze.

He'd felt the stroking of her tongue across his lips, he'd thought for sure she'd been about to deepen the kiss. To hell with sure, he was damn well positive that in mere moments, they'd have been tearing at each other's robes and forgetting the rest of the world existed.

"I'm . . . sorry?" he said, though he was more than a little confused by what was happening.

Hermione snickered at his bewildered expression and shook her head. "No, I . . . it's okay, I wanted you to kiss me, it's just . . . ." Dear Lord, she _was_ an idiot, wasn't she? She _really_ wanted him—so much so that she knew if Fenrir were awake, he'd never let her hear the end of it for all the scents she must be emitting right at the moment—but she was so dreadfully exhausted now that one of them was here with her.

Now that her body had let go all that awful tension, and she knew if she were to ever ravage Thorfinn Rowle, she wanted to be fully awake for the entire experience.

His brows pinched together as his gaze searched her features. "Just what?"

She bit her lip in thought as she observed the way he watched her face. "I don't want you to take this the wrong way, I really . . . ." _God_ , she couldn't believe she was actually going to say this, but she didn't want any mixed signals between them. " _Really_ want to shag your brains out."

Thorfinn's eyes shot wide as a surprised chuckle burst out of him. "I didn't know there _was_ a way to take a declaration like that wrong, Sunshine."

With a quick, airy laugh of her own, she shook her head, once more. "No, I mean, I want that, just not now."

He nodded, his expression sobering as he looked at her. "So, just now, what is it you do want?"

Oh, sweet Merlin, he thought his heart would melt from the sudden lost glimmer that filled her eyes. She seemed so small and helpless when she made that face, and he knew that for as petite as she was, this unarmed witch was far from helpless.

"Would you—God, this is going to sound so stupid and childish—but would you just stay with me while I sleep?"

Thorfinn was nodding before he even realized he was moving in response to her question. After all, didn't it make sense? All of Dolohov's research into the new Dark Lord's experiment, his notes on her unusual condition . . . . If she really saw them as pack, she probably had trouble feeling at peace enough to get any rest while she was alone. Even having Fenrir as a roommate probably didn't help, what with a literal wall between them.

At his nod, she crawled into his lap and curled up against him. There was just something so secure, so safe in having the Viking of a wizard wrapped around her like this. She refused to repeat to him—or even to Antonin—what she had said to Fenrir the other day, but that didn't mean she didn't feel it, anymore.

She was scared.

How warm he was comforted her, as did the sound of his heartbeat as she pressed her ear to his chest. Already, she could feel her eyelids drifting downward, and her breathing steady, seemingly of its own volition.

The witch was lightly snoring faster than he'd thought would be possible. Breathing a quiet chuckle, Thorfinn pushed himself—his movements gentle, so as not to jostle her awake—across the bed until his back was against the wall.

Dropping his chin down atop her head, he closed his eyes. He didn't know if it was her, or if Dolohov was correct and somehow what she was becoming was effecting them, as well, but he found the position strangely comfortable. Before he knew it, he was falling asleep as well.

* * *

Antonin stopped short in the chamber's entry. He knew what he was expecting to see when he'd stormed down here, nearly on autopilot, and the two of them fast asleep and fully clothed had _not_ been it.

With a sigh, he shook his head at himself. What the bloody hell had he thought he was going to do, had he caught them in the middle of what he'd believed had been happening down here?

This really was a mess, wasn't it? He didn't even know what he was doing down here!

Shaking his head once more, he turned away from the sight of the pair curled up so peacefully together.

"Oh, no you don't."

Antonin started at Thorfinn's whispered voice. His shoulders slumping, he turned to face the other wizard. "I beg your pardon?"

Rowle had one eye cracked open, and it was locked on Antonin. "You're not going anywhere."

Antonin's body shook in a silent chuckle. "And why not? Seems you've got things well under control, here."

"You're such a shit, sometimes." Thorfinn sighed, aware that he hadn't exactly been pleasant when he'd come down here and found the Russian wizard cuddled up with her a few nights ago. "Egos aside, she needs us. So . . . sit your short, grumpy arse down and shut your cakehole."

Scowling, despite that he already knew he'd lost this argument, Antonin said in a hissing tone, "I'm not short."

Chuckling, Thorfinn's eye closed at last. "Compared to me, most people are short. Now _get_ over here."

Though he rolled his eyes and set his jaw, Antonin dragged his feet across the chamber floor. He wanted to make a grand, irritated show of sitting on the bed and throwing himself back into the wall to settle beside the pair . . . but he knew that would only wake her, and she had seemed rather tired, as of late.

His motions delicate, he climbed onto the bed and turned, putting himself down beside Thorfinn.

He started at the brush of a hand against him. Looking down, he found Hermione'd slipped one arm from the bundled up form of her and Thorfinn. Her fingers rested atop his thigh, and he knew, unmistakably, that even in her sleep, she was aware of his closeness.

The wolf in her really _did_ see them as her pack.

Antonin allowed his head to drop back against the wall behind him. Resting his hand over hers, he closed his eyes, surprised at how simple it was to let himself fall asleep like this.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

She awoke with a start, her vision hazy in the early morning light spilling through the narrow window overhead. Something . . . something had disturbed her sleep. Something that tied her stomach in knots and lodged an uncomfortable lump in her throat.

Hermione was immediately aware of the two wizards curled around her in slumber. No, whatever had woken her wasn't to do with them.

Then it happened—a deep, forlorn howl tore through the chateau's cellar. She recognized the sound on an instinctive level, it was one of mourning.

And she could no longer detect Fenrir's labored breathing from the other chamber. There was no mistaking what it meant, then, that the white wolf was lamenting a death.

The pounding of her heart against her ribs was sudden, nearly painful, and she burst into motion. Tearing herself out of Thorfinn's sleepy embrace, she tumbled straight off the bed and onto the floor. Just as fast, though, she jumped to her feet and ran to the bend in the wall. She had no capacity for noticing how the commotion had awakened him and Antonin, just then.

"Greyback," she shouted, surprising herself with the screeching tone in her voice. " _Greyback_!" No, _no!_ This was impossible. He—he was strong, he _had_ to still be there! He _had_ to be okay, somehow.

Still, there was nothing but her own rapid breathing and the howls of the wolf.

She jumped at the feel of hands on her shoulders. Her movements frantic, she tore herself away from that grip. Tears she couldn't account for broke free to spill down her cheeks as she tried pulling at the damnable chain holding her in that chamber.

She couldn't be sad he was gone, she . . . she hated him. She was supposed to be glad he was gone, wasn't she? This was wrong! He was supposed to be alive, and she wasn't supposed to shed tears for someone like him!

Nothing made sense to her around the ache in her chest and the sour tinge in her stomach.

Thorfinn and Antonin exchanged a bewildered glance as the witch growled, her fingers scraping at the manacle around her ankle so hard she might draw blood any moment. Antonin gave the other man a meaningful nod and started for the other chamber.

"Greyback, _answer_ me!" she tried again, her screaming voice taking on an edge of panic.

Thorfinn dropped down beside her, pulling her hands into his. Though he held firm, he was shocked at how strong her attempts to pull out of his grip proved.

"Let me go, Thorfinn! Let me _go_! I have to see him."

Antonin appeared at the bend in the wall, his features somber. He was cognizant of the way Hermione held her breath as she fell silent, as she turned her head to look up at him, a foolishly hopeful glimmer in her eyes.

Damn, she really had gotten to them, hadn't she? Antonin found he had to force a gulp down his throat. That he had to tear his gaze from hers and fix his attention anywhere else as he explained his findings. "I'm sorry. It looks like, with all those injuries for so long . . . his body finally gave out. He's gone, Hermione."

"No!" She shot to her feet and lunged at him, once more surprising Thorfinn as she ripped her hands out of his. The only thing that kept her from reaching Antonin was the stupid bloody chain. "I don't believe you! He _can't_ be gone! He's the only one who understands!"

Despite her angry movements and her lashing out, Antonin closed the distance between them and threw his arms around her. She was shivering so hard, his own body shook with the force of it. He understood—not the way Greyback would've, clearly, but he understood that she'd never experienced this type of loss, before. Just as he'd predicted, she'd come to see Fenrir as part of her pack, and she was not prepared for that sort of bond to be severed so unexpectedly.

She screamed and raged and stamped her feet, her voice muffled against the fabric of Antonin's robes. Hermione couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so utterly useless. She was barely aware of Thorfinn climbing to his feet behind her, of the way he stepped close, resting his hands over her hips and dropping his cheek down atop her head.

"Now, isn't this a pretty sight?"

All three started at the new Dark Lord's voice slithering into the air of the chamber.

Hermione lifted her head, glaring chestnut eyes that were just a hint paler in color than usual locking on her former best friend. "You!" Again, she was a flurry of motion as the tried to pull free of her wizards. "This is your fault, you sick, sad, _twisted_ thing!"

Piddle actually snickered at her venomous tone. "Well, yes, of course it is. I admit I'd wanted to keep him around a bit longer, in case the first injection didn't take, but . . . ." Those sparking green eyes of his narrowed as he stepped closer to her—but still not _quite_ within her reach—"I see that's no longer a concern."

She unleashed another growl, tearing at the wizards trying to hold her back. But the Dark Lord's attention wasn't on her, anymore. Oh, for a moment there, it had been, but after a scrutinizing look, he shifted his gaze to Thorfinn, and then Antonin.

"I also see someone's not been wholly honest with me about the progress of my experiment."

Antonin swallowed hard, his icy eyes shooting wide. Thorfinn winced, cursing under his breath, and again, the man—if he could be called that—before them noticed.

"And to top it off, someone else was complicit in your deception?"

"They were protecting me," Hermione said in a hissing whisper that seemed too loud in the absence of the wolf's howls—the creature had fallen silent the moment the Dark Lord had appeared, and Hermione couldn't say she blamed her. "I don't know how I know that, but I do. They were protecting me because of the position _you_ put them in! If you don't like it, you've got only _yourself_ to blame!"

"Oh, sweet Hermione." Piddle let out a wistful-sounding sigh. "I can, in fact, blame anyone I like, and what I like is to let those who commit the act bear the blame. _And_ the punishment."

She felt her heart drop into her stomach, even as the thought of them being punished for trying to help her set her blood boiling. "Don't you dare."

"When are you going to learn, no one has command over me. You two upstairs, now."

Even as Antonin and Thorfinn reluctantly moved to follow his orders, Hermione kept her attention locked on him. "If you hurt them, I swear to it, I'll _murder_ you."

The Dark Lord's eyes widened in surprise and he choked out a hearty, genuine chuckle at that. He drew a deep breath, speaking only after he'd sobered from his laughter. "Bearing that in mind, I think I might just . . . whoops, kill them at some point. Hard to say, really."

"You do that, and I'll only make your death more agonizing."

His brows arched upward. "Will you, now?"

She could feel her features tighten in a merciless look as she held his gaze. "It will be so slow, so painful, that you'll _wish_ you could have Fenrir's death."

Hermione wasn't certain what it was, whether it was her tone, or her expression, or some feral gleam in her eyes, but she knew—because after all, that was still Harry's face, and she could still read his expressions, no matter if he liked it, or not—he _believed_ her.

His face twisted into a wrathful look as he turned on his heel and stormed away. "I'll have someone come down here and deal with the body, you know, before it starts to smell _too_ bad."

And then, like that, he was gone. Emitting a soft growl under her breath, she turned and started examining what was in her chamber. She was not going to let this be her fate much longer.

The wolf let out a soft whining sound. Hermione wasn't certain how she understood what the creature was trying to communicate to her, but she did, all the same.

"I'm getting out of here, is what I'm going to do. We _both_ are, Lady Wolf. I'll not let you suffer here."

Hermione crossed to the table where Antonin had performed her examinations. Surely there had to be something . . . .

Her Lady Wolf uttered a little howl, then, short and keening.

Hermione's eyes drifted closed as she felt tears trying to well up, once more. _Greyback_. "Thank you," she whispered, knowing full well the wolf could hear her. "I'm sorry, too."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Thorfinn gave himself a shake as he came to, his vision was blurry and his head was absolutely splitting. His shoulders ached from the restraints and he thought he'd be sick from the awful combination of an empty stomach and varying levels of pain.

Thank Merlin he'd passed out—between falling unconscious and being driven mad by the torment of repeated, prolonged applications of the _Cruciatus_ curse, the former was a much better reaction, he thought. Dolohov wasn't looking so good, in that regard.

The Dark Lord had stomped away, presumably to rest, or eat . . . go stomp some kittens to death, maybe, who knew what. The only thing that mattered at the moment was that he wasn't _there_. He wasn't there, and Antonin Dolohov's icy eyes were unnervingly wide and unblinking at he stared off at nothing in particular.

Wincing, Thorfinn looked about. Aside from the two of them, the room was empty. He strained to listen, but there was no sound of footfalls headed their way—wherever their odious leader had vanished to, he was not coming back just yet.

"Dolohov?" he tried, his voice no more than a hissing whisper.

There was the faintest movement from the other man—a quick, barely noticeable blink—but nothing more.

Thorfinn shook his head, rolling his eyes in aggravation. He and Dolohov weren't exactly best friends, but he liked to think they were together in this. Partners in Crime, as it were. That, and being chained in this room alone with a madman was not by any means a comforting notion. As though the way the sparking of Lord Potter's acid green eyes had seemed to increase, getting more vibrant, more rapid, as the torture had gone on wasn't unsettling enough, already.

"Dolohov!" he said, again, the name spilling out from between clenched teeth.

Antonin blinked, once more—this time a harder, more obvious closing of his eyelids than before—and he gave a shake of his head. "Oh, bloody hell, everything hurts. Where is he?"

Thorfinn couldn't believe what he was witnessing. It nearly seemed as though the dark-haired wizard had been asleep this entire time! "Are you shitting me? What in Merlin's name just happened to you?"

Drawing in a deep, pained breath and letting it out slow, Antonin again shook his head. "A long time ago, I taught myself to go into a trance. The deep, meditative state separates my mind from what's happening to my body. I'm not exactly built for torture—few people are, in fact. Well . . . 'cept maybe _you_ , you behemoth."

It was an odd moment for a proud smirk to curve his lips, but Thorfinn did it, all the same.

Antonin sighed. "I figured if I were ever on the receiving end of torture, it might spare my mind from breaking. Turns out I was right. Though, it's not as much of a reprieve as you'd think—what's left of the pain's still there when you come to."

"We're not getting out of this, are we?"

Cringing with the movement, as he became aware just how screamingly sore his muscles were, Antonin turned his head to look at the other man. "We might not, no . . . ." He dropped his voice so low, Thorfinn strained to lean closer so he might hear the words. "Doesn't mean someone won't come rescue us."

Thorfinn's eyes shot wide. Glancing about, once more, he mouthed the name, afraid he'd be overheard—as though the Dark Lord would imagine they could mean anyone else, were he within earshot—"Hermione?"

Antonin grinned, though it was a weary and anguished expression. His voice still so low the golden-haired wizard just barely heard him, he said, "I lied."

His brow furrowing, Thorfinn tried to puzzle out what he meant by that. What had Dolohov said during this fiasco that lying about it could mean their rescue?

 _I'm sorry, My Lord_ , he'd said when they'd been _Imperiused_ to remove their own wands from their persons and drop them at the vile creature's feet, _I did not bring my wand with me when I went to check on the prisoners. I hadn't thought it necessary._

And the Dark Lord, knowing well how pragmatic a thinker Antonin Dolohov was, had _believed_ him.

If Antonin's wand wasn't on him, and he'd lied about leaving it behind in his room, then . . . .

It was all Thorfinn could do to hold back a sound of shock. Grateful, relieved shock, but the sensation began to ebb from him in that same instant as he heard the echoing thud of Lord Potter's footfalls—overly heavy for a man of his stature—coming down the corridor toward them.

* * *

Hermione growled in frustration, throwing the spoon she'd found—apparently dropped from one of her meal trays, who knew when—it was the only metal implement anywhere in her chamber. Piddle had been very careful and deliberate in his instructions to his followers, it seemed. The utensil clattered loudly to the floor as she wrapped both hands around her chain and tried to wrench it from the bolt in the wall.

She'd hoped she could at least chip away a little of the mortar around the bolt, just enough so that she could start working it free of the wall, but she was sure she hadn't managed more than a scratch, and she was wasting time! More frustrating, she couldn't even be sure exactly how many precious minutes had ticked by during her fruitless efforts, though she knew it far more than she had to spare.

Lady Wolf uttered an uncertain, confused grumble.

The witch nearly dropped the chain in surprise at what the noble beast was wondering. "No, no. Not that it hasn't crossed my mind before, but I'm not yet so hellbent on escape that gnawing off my own foot is a viable option."

She had yet to truly comprehend how it was they were communicating so fluidly. Her best guess was that without realizing she was doing so, she was picking up on not only the sounds, but the subtle nuances of scent the creature was emitting. Equally, she was probably emitting similar little tells in her own scent—on a completely instinctive and unconscious level—that Lady Wolf understood.

Dear Lord, this would all be so confusing if she gave herself enough time to stop and think about her situation, but time was a luxury she didn't have. Who knew if Antonin and Thorfinn were even still alive at this precise moment?

The very thought of Piddle harming them kicked up a violent, wrenching anger in the pit of her gut that was unlike anything she'd ever felt before.

A short growl of commiseration sounded from Lady Wolf.

The image that struck Hermione as the pain in that noise registered nearly dropped her to her knees. Swallowing hard, she forced back an unexpected wash of tears. "He killed your mate?"

There was a short sound, then, a strange mix of a growl and a mournful howl.

"I assure you, I _will_ get us out of here, and you will have revenge." She understood why the wolf had shared that pain with her—because of her new, strange bond with the wizards.

It was as Fenrir had said, wasn't it? The wolf in her saw them as her mates. Not one or the other, _both_ of them. That terrible, boiling rage inside her at not being able to protect them, her desire _to_ protect them, was born of that feeling.

In her distraction, she pulled too hard, her skin sliding against the thick, aged metal. She let out a yelp as that quick bite of pain in her palms caused her to release the chain out of reflex and she fell on her bum.

Hermine shook her head while she caught her breath. But then, as she inhaled deep through her nostrils—yes, there were so many scents down here, now, hers, her wizards', Fenrir's, the wolf's, Piddle's—beneath everything, there was an acrid odor the felt like it might singe her nostrils. It wasn't from Fenrir. Sad as it was to consider, his corpse was still too fresh, and she somehow knew this scent was decaying flesh. For all of Fenrir's wounds, they'd been held in stasis, the edges of broken skin never allowed _to_ decay just as they had never been allowed to heal.

Turning her head this way and that as she sniffed at the air, she couldn't help the question, "What _is_ that smell?"

Lady Wolf made a dissatisfied snuffling noise.

The witch's brows shot up. _The man who hurt me_ , she'd communicated. Piddle . . . . She understood in a flash his need for urgency in his precious experiment. Whatever he was planning, he needed it done _soon_.

Just as she'd predicted, his body couldn't handle housing the combined magical energy of both Harry Potter _and_ Tom Riddle. It was dying on him. Little by little, fragments of death creeping in on him as the days passed.

The was a strange sort of poetry to that, but all the same . . . .

"Oh, no." The laugh that escaped her was utterly malicious. "He's not going to meet death _that_ easy."

Her lone companion agreed.

It was then, as Hermione turned her head back to look at the bolt in the wall, once more, that she noticed it. Peeking out from beneath her blanket, just the tiniest bit, just enough that she might see it.

A sound of disbelief stuck in her throat as she scrambled across the floor on her hands and knees. Throwing back her bedcovers, she spotted the tip of a wand poking out from between the mattress and the half-rotted box spring.

Oh, that sneaky devil! She bit her lip to keep from screaming in a mix of joy and relief as she wedged Antonin's weapon from its hiding place.

Lady Wolf noticed the change in her scent and snuffled, again, this time out of curiosity.

"I'll tell you what's happened," Hermione said before whispering the _Alohomora_ charm under her breath and feeling the sweet alleviation of the heavy metal cuff falling from her ankle. It might not be as powerful in her hand as her own wand might be, but with her newly-awakened animal side—all shiny and sharpened and waiting to be put to use—her magic, and her Lady Wolf, she knew the Dark witches and wizards barring the way between her and Piddle wouldn't stand a bloody chance. "One of my mates has made avenging yours possible."

Climbing to her feet, the witch spared a moment to dust herself off. She tried hard to keep her feeling of triumph in check. That could wait until they were staring down at his cold, _fully_ -dead body.

Exiting her chamber on her own two feet, for a change, she deliberately avoided so much as glancing into Fenrir's chamber as she passed it. They'd come back to him in a moment, just now, she needed to focus.

She rounded the bend into the final chamber, the air leaving her lungs in a rush as she at last came face-to-face with her Lady Wolf. "There you are." Holding in a mournful laugh, she closed the distance between them, reaching a hand through the bars to gently stroke the back of the wolf's neck.

Leaning near, she closed her eyes and lowered her head. She felt the press of fur against her forehead and, for a moment, they were still. A simple, quiet moment of breathing in the same space before the torrent of violence and blood that was to come.

Sniffling, she nodded against the wolf's head before she stepped back. Unlocking the cage, she led the way to back to Fenrir.

Antonin had taken the care to cover the body. She'd not expected that. Hermione could feel her throat close, she could feel the faint trembling in her belly from holding in a sob, and that annoying ping of tears in the corners of her eyes.

Drawing in a deep breath, she grabbed hold of the sheet and pulled it away. His eyes were closed, and his mouth gaped just a bit. Swallowing hard, she touched her fingers to his jaw and eased it shut. He was cold, but rigor mortis had not yet set in; he'd been dead less than four hours. Just a handful of hours . . . but she'd easily been at her attempts to escape for two, if not longer. Had she really missed the moment of his passing so narrowly?

Or was that what had actually awakened her this morning, rather than Lady Wolf's howls of grief?

The wolf trotted up beside him and laid her head on his chest. At the sight, Hermione had all she could do not to scream. Out of sorrow, anger, frustration, yes, even fear.

Forcing a gulp down her throat, she leaned toward him. "I'm so sorry I couldn't save you," she whispered, her voice thick with her unshed tears. Pressing her lips to his forehead, she thought for a moment she couldn't move. His pained laugh rang in her ears, the teasing tone of his voice as he'd nagged her about this or that played through her head.

It was only the nudging of Lady Wolf's nose against her side that urged her to pull away from him.

"I'll not leave you here, either. Goodbye, Fenrir Greyback," she said, at last letting a tear roll free. Her lower lip shivered as she pointed her borrowed wand and murmured, " _Incendio_."

Lady Wolf let out a quick yowl of surprise as she backpedaled from the sudden blaze.

Hermione looked to the creature for understanding. "He's not keeping _any_ of us prisoner, anymore." When she was certain Lady Wolf comprehended why she'd done that, she nodded.

The grip on her weapon so tight her knuckles drained of color, she said, "Now, let's go rescue my mates."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

As Hermione crept from the stairwell and out onto the chateau's first floor, she halted, her senses alert and her entire body feeling on edge. She turned to advise her companion to wait, but Lady Wolf had already frozen in place beside her. She smelled it, too.

 _Well, of_ course _, she did_ , Hermione thought with a rueful shake of her head. After all, the natural wolf would have keener senses than the hybrid creature artificially forced into being.

This scent was odd, unsettling . . . it kicked off strangely mixed ripples of anxiety and agitation in the pit of her stomach. _Death,_ but new death. How could she smell that? Fresher than Fenrir's body, and certainly fresher than the new Dark Lord's slow, creeping decay. But not just fresh death, an odd static tickled her nostrils when she inhaled.

Energy. Magic.

Bloody hell, she could _smell_ magic, now?! No, no, it wasn't _only_ that this was magic, she realized, it was due to the potency of the magic used. Strong, strong enough that she worried for a moment that she'd be no match for it, after all, with her borrowed wand.

Giving her head another shake, she pushed her doubts aside. She knew for certain, now, that he was burning himself out. She didn't have to defeat him, she only had to press him until the output was too much for his body to handle.

Then her Lady Wolf could take it from there.

Closing her eyes, she focused on what she could hear. On what she could sense. If that scent of fresh death was coming from her wizards . . . .

Angry, heavy pacing. Muffled voices—she thought she could just make out Antonin cursing in Russian, and Thorfinn's slight Norwegian accent, the one that was barely detectable unless the listener was paying attention for it, as he grumbled about something or other. And heartbeats. Her hearing wasn't quite sharp enough to count how many, or determine precisely how far they were upstairs, but it was more than one. The voices might be her own wishful thinking, a brief moment of hope-induced auditory pareidolia, but those heartbeats were all the encouragement she needed to believe he'd not killed them, yet.

Swallowing hard, she nodded to the wolf. They both crept forward on silent footfalls, peering into the rooms on the first floor as they went. The first few were empty, but then . . . .

Again, she halted, only this time it was entirely involuntary. "Oh, God," she whispered, not sure if she was more confused or sickened by the sight of the bodies sprawled across the floor.

She could barely make sense the sort of damage she was seeing to the corpses. Was it some explosion of magical energy? She'd not heard any noises that would indicate such a thing, and she and Lady Wolf both _certainly_ would have heart something like this. Had he found some way to vent his excess power that had caused so much chaos without making a sound?

Had the deaths before her been accidental or deliberate?

The words tumbled from her lips, barely a thread of sound as she stared, wide-eyed at the carnage, "How the hell did he do this?"

Lady Wolf uttered a low, rumbling yelp.

Turning her head, Hermione met the wolf's gaze at the sound. "Right, right. Just more reasons he has to die."

It was a grim reality, that she had to end the creature who wore her best friend's face, but, she reminded herself as they crept along to the main staircase, her best friend was already dead. He had been since the moment Voldemort's body had fallen, and she'd known it all along.

But now, as she started up the steps—toward that stomping and those heartbeats and the maybe-voices—reminding herself that Harry was dead, that he'd been dead all this time, forced tears from her eyes. Her chin and her lower lip trembled and she tightened her grip on her wand as she moved, silent, up the staircase. She'd probably cried more just today than she had during the entire War, and her prior weeks of captivity.

At the second floor landing, she turned her head, glancing down both wings. The acoustics of the old, grand house made determining just which direction the sounds were coming from difficult to pin down. Frowning, she looked to her companion, but the distortion seemed to confuse the wolf, as well. Bloody hell!

But she could, certainly, hear his voice, now. _Piddle_. She let herself have a quick, quiet snicker at that. Pity she never got a chance to share that little gem with Fenrir, he'd have gotten a good laugh out of it.

After a moment to steel her nerves—no matter how enraged and justified and ready to fight she was, she was still aware there was a chance none of them made it out of this mess alive—she started off down the corridor through the eastern wing. There might be nothing but more carnage through here, but she needed to be certain any Death Eaters left alive wouldn't interfere and try to save their horrible leader.

Her palms were growing sweaty, and she swore she could hear the beat of her own heart in her ears, hammering at her brain and mixing with the sounds around her. She knew that her own footfalls were quiet, barely-audible, but to her new senses, and her currently overactive perception, every step felt like it was thundering across the floorboards.

Empty rooms. Empty rooms. The damn bathroom where Thorfinn and Antonin had thrown her into ice water to save her life.

She winced, giving her head a shake as she walked past that doorway. She would never forget how concerned they both looked that day. She should've suspected they genuinely cared for her, then, but it all seemed far too preposterous at the time.

Nodding to herself, she decided she would make it up to both of them, somehow, when they were all free of this madness.

Lady Wolf let out a low woof and trotted on ahead. Pausing before the final door at the end of the east wing, she turned her head to look at Hermione. The creature woofed, again, and then disappeared into the room.

Frowning, Hermione followed, her movements cautious and her wand steady before her. Rounding the entryway, she found another slew of fallen bodies, but these seemed like they were still breathing. One was even struggling to sit up, though her eyes were closed and she appeared as though she was too exhausted to even utter a groan.

"Alecto Carrow?"

The Death Eater jumped at the sound of her own name. Opening bleary grey-green eyes, she looked across the room at Hermione, before her gaze fell to the wolf.

Alecto let out an lifeless chuckle as she shrugged. She nodded at her wand, dropped some distance from where she sat, now, making it clear she had no way to fight them off.

"Well," the Dark witch said, a sad half-smile on her face, "if you want to kill me, might as well do it now, before Lord Potter comes back and finishes the job."

Shaking her head—though she did spare a minute to kick the weapon further out of reach—Hermione hurried through the room to the other woman. "I'm not going to kill you. Seems rather pointless, right now, actually." She lowered herself carefully beside Alecto. "He's killed the others, there are bodies all over the place downstairs. Seems you lot up here are lucky to still be breathing."

Alecto snorted a vaguely mad-sounding giggle at that.

"Why is he killing his own followers?"

"He's . . . ." She let her voice trail off, licking her parched lips.

Hermione held up a hand, silencing her a moment. Looking about, she spotted a discarded wine bottle. Shoulders drooping, she shot to her feet and rushed across the floor, snatching it up by the neck. " _Aguamenti_ ," she murmured as she tapped her wand against the bottle.

Returning to Alecto's side, she lifted it, helping the other witch take some much needed sips of water. After a moment, Alecto nodded, and Hermione set the bottle aside.

"Th—thank you."

Hermione shook her head. "You can thank me by telling me what happened and not giving me a reason to kill you."

The wolf rumbled at that.

"No." Turning to look over her shoulder at Lady Wolf, Hermione went on in a gentle tone. "It's obvious she's not going to stop us from ending him. She doesn't need to die."

Alecto, for all her pain and excruciating exhaustion, looked confused. "You and that wolf understand each other?"

"It's a long story, and one that I suppose means he didn't let _anyone_ in on what he was hoping to accomplish with his little experiment?"

The other witch shook her head. "All we knew was that he kept on about some special kind of werewolf he was trying to create. I'm guessing by the color of your eyes, that he's succeeded."

Hermione remembered, then, that it was as Piddle had held her gaze, so close she could see the wild sparks in his mad green eyes, that he'd realized his experiment had worked. Her _brown_ eyes . . . . They must've lightened to a more wolfish shade, like Fenrir's amber ones.

"Alecto, focus. Why did he do this to all of you?"

Alecto blinked hard, giving her head a shake, only to wince at the action. "He wasn't trying to kill us. He was trying to . . . to work off some of his magic, he said. Before any of us knew it, we were in . . . _torment_ , is the only term for it."

Refusing to let the word send a shiver down her spine, Hermione helped Alecto get another sip of water before she had to ask, "Torment? What'd you mean by that?"

For a moment, the Dark witch's features pinched in an expression that made Hermione think she just might burst into frightened tears at the memory. "It was like . . . the Unforgivables all rolled into one . . . . The pain was blinding, it hurt too much to scream. He made it so we didn't want to fight back, we all threw down our wands like it was our own idea. The weaker ones . . . they fell. I thought I was going to die, too. But then, he j—he just stopped."

Dear God, Hermione actually felt sorry for her. She gave herself a sobering shake. "But that doesn't tell me why."

Forcing a gulp down her throat, Alecto darted her gaze about before returning her attention to Hermione. "You're really not going to kill me?"

"No, I'm really not. Under normal circumstances, I'd drag you back to Britain and face your crimes, but . . . . It's not as though they'd welcome me with open arms, since the War probably made werewolves more feared than they already were." Hermione exhaled through her nostrils and shook her head, reminding herself she had to get moving, but she needed as much information as she could get on what she was walking into. "I am going to kill _Lord Potter_ , and if you're not going to try and stop me, then as far as I'm concerned, you and whoever else is still breathing are free to go."

"Okay," Alecto said, nodding. "He's trying not to kill Rowle and Dolohov, just yet. He wants to make them suffer. A lot. He's drawing it out."

Closing her eyes, Hermione swallowed down a lump forming in her throat. "He wants them to suffer _to death_. That's why he worked off his excess energy, so he doesn't accidentally kill them too fast."

Alecto fell silent as she looked at the others sprawled throughout the room.

"I can't believe he actually listened to me. I'm going to have my work cut out for me, trying to get him back to that boiling point," Hermione muttered thoughtlessly—she should've kept her bloody mouth shut about his body not being able to handle so much magical energy.

Snapping her attention back to Hermione, Alecto said, "Hand me my wand."

Her brows shooting up her forehead, the Muggle-born witch frowned. "That'd be a no."

Alecto huffed out a quick, exasperated breath. "I'm not in any condition to fight you. You mean to work him up so his head explodes, or melts or something, yeah? With a wand that's not yours, you won't last long enough against him to work him back to that point. If you disarm me . . . the magic in my wand will recognize _you_ as its new owner. Hand me my wand, Granger."

Hermione's frame drooped a little. She knew Alecto was right, but she still knew it was stupid to blindly trust the other woman. Turning toward the fallen wand, she met Lady Wolf's gaze and gave a nod so subtle, she knew Alecto wouldn't see it. _Only if she tries anything_ , Hermione managed in a whisper so low, it could barely be considered speaking.

Grabbing Alecto's wand, she turned back and pressed it into the Death Eater's hand.

Though she braced for a sudden flurry of motion, or a blast of magic, none came. She looked to Alecto's face and found nothing but that same quiet exhaustion. No aggression, not even a glimmer of fear. Simply the countenance of someone who wanted this over.

"G' on."

Hermione flicked her borrowed wand in the direction of Alecto's hand. " _Expelliarmus_."

Making good on her word, Alecto made no attempt to hold onto the weapon as it flew from her fingers. Hermione pinned her attention on the fallen wand for a heartbeat, the wand that was now hers.

Somehow, though, she didn't feel right leaving Alecto unguarded, if she and Lady Wolf failed to kill Piddle. "Here," Hermione said, handing over Antonin's wand. "Just in case. You can give it back to Dolohov if we all survive this."

Nodding, Alecto watched the wolf-witch climb to her feet and turn away. As the younger woman was nearly at the door, however, she called out to her. "Granger?"

Hermione glanced over her shoulder.

"Give 'im one from me."

Smirking, Hermione started on her way once more. "You don't have to ask me twice."

Back out in the corridor, she shook off the strange calm of the moment she'd shared with Alecto, just now. Rather than wasting time trying to make sense of the sound distortion of the antiquated building, she went with logic and made a beeline down the corridor, back the way she came.

Past the staircase and through the western wing she went, Lady Wolf keeping pace beside her. With any luck, Piddle would be so caught up in what he was doing they'd be able to catch him off guard.

Even were that the case, she reminded herself, as they drew close enough to one of the last rooms that she could hear the vile creature's frustrated huffing, she could not cast anything that might kill him. She'd promised the wolf that pleasure.

It troubled her a little that she could not hear Antonin or Thorfinn, but then, Alecto's words floated back to her. _The pain was blinding, it hurt too much to scream._ The thought of her wizards in that sort of agony renewed her fury, but she forced herself to keep her emotions in check. If she rushed Piddle in a fit of rage, he might just kill her on the spot.

As they reached the doorway through which they heard breaths and heartbeats, witch and wolf both paused. Tipping their heads around the jamb, they peered in.

There stood the thing that called itself Lord Potter . . . . His back was to them! His back was to them as he held the Elder Wand on her wizards!

Hermione gritted her teeth, knowing better than to look at Thorfinn or Antonin's faces, right now, not with the dreadful, multi-hued wash of energy pouring into them. _Now_ was the time.

" _Expelliarmus_!"

The monster was quick to react, bellowing in anger as his weapon was forced from his hand. Spinning on his heel to face the doorway, he wore an expression of pure malice.

"You!"

"Me." Hermione wasted no time, either, hitting him with a stunning spell.

When he didn't fall, she tagged him again. The magic in his system must still be too potent, she realized. It was going to take more than that to really put him down for the wolf to finish him off.

He lowered himself to one knee to get his bearings, but kept his gaze trained on hers. Even as he shook his head, a dazed gleam in his eyes from her stunners. "I may need you, but it doesn't mean I can't _hurt_ you. And I _hardly_ need a wand for that."

She had to do it, she knew she had to. Swallowing hard, she took advantage of his momentary disorientation. It was awful, it was _unforgivable_ . . . but the only way to do him any true damage might be to hurt him the way he was hurting everyone else.

 _He's_ not _Harry, anymore._

Summoning up each horror of the War she'd witnessed, each pain she'd felt, each loss she'd endured, each tragic moment until now, she poured it _all_ into her magic as she said in a trembling, but lethal whisper, " _Crucio_."

He let out an angry groan, shuddering at the pain wracking him. Gritting his teeth, he put every ounce of will he had into pulling himself to his feet. He would _not_ end this way.

Hermione felt like her entire body was tensing as she watched him stand, as she responded by trying to force more pain into her curse. She felt a thrill of triumph as he backpedaled a step.

Lady Wolf growled, baring her teeth at him.

"No," Hermione said in a low voice. "Not yet, if you jump in now, you might get—"

Ignoring the witch, the wolf launched herself at Piddle from the doorway. Paralyzed by the torment of Hermione's _Cruciatus_ , he had no defense for Lady Wolf's attack.

 _"No!"_ Hermione shouted, lowering her wand just in time to keep her companion from catching the brunt of her suffering.

The voice that strangled out of Piddle's throat while the wolf tore into him _almost_ sounded like Harry's. Even in her fury, Hermione had to duck her head. She had to avert her watery gaze from the sight before her. The terrible noises he uttered—half-formed words she knew were probably attempts at wandless magic to fend of those gnashing teeth—the tear of flesh ripping and pulling . . . . Knowing that regardless of the truth, and of what she told herself, she still could not bear seeing Harry's face as the wolf mauled that vile thing.

She thought she must've blacked out, after a moment of dizziness, she heard her wizards calling her name.

Blinking hard, she gave herself a shake. She was on her knees in the doorway, Lady Wolf nudging her literally bloody nose against Hermione's side, and the lifeless, rent and torn body of the new Dark Lord littered the center of the room.

A chill coursed through her as she realized . . . . "It's over." Her voice was barely audible, even in the quiet of the room. She blinked back tears as she forced herself to her feet and ran to unbind Antonin and Thorfinn.

"Well, yeah, thanks for remembering us," Thorfinn said with an exhausted chuckle.

"Oh, shut up, you." Antonin frowned as the larger man eased himself up to stand and began to take an inventory of his injuries. He could really do without the way a relieved Hermione pulled Thorfinn's mouth down on hers passionate kiss.

Rolling his eyes, Antonin couldn't help the impatience in his voice as he barked, "Forgetting something, are you?"

Hermione broke the kiss, laughing as she turned to face Antonin. Kneeling before him, she kissed him, as well, just as passionately—but he'd like to believe it went on a _little_ bit longer than Rowle's kiss—before she set to unbinding him.

She was certainly going to have a lot of fun keeping these two from having a go at one another, she thought with a half-grin.

* * *

"I've got something." Hermione held out the book Piddle had used for his notes on his precious experiment. "He never fully explained what he'd thought would happen, I suppose in case anyone found this, but he does state that our Lady Wolf is the alpha of the largest pack in the European wilds."

Closing the book, she looked to the wolf. They all felt much better, now that they'd had time to clean themselves up and put some food in their stomachs. Alecto and those who'd survived were sleeping off their injuries, though they knew by the time they awoke, their rescuers would be long gone. And, after another staged disarming charm, Alecto Carrow's wand was back with its _rightful_ owner.

Hermione shrugged. "It takes a _lot_ of fortitude to lead a pack, let alone one of record size. But werewolves aren't typically pack animals. Between Fenrir's bite, and the plasma he extracted from her, I think he was trying to create an alpha female werewolf who could have the ability to cow other werewolves _and_ form a pack. Make them follow. And if I were following _him_ . . . you see where I'm going with this."

"He was going to return to England with an army of _controlled_ werewolves?" Thorfinn said, wide-eyed at the terrifying prospect.

Antonin shrugged and nodded. Given the information at hand and everything that he'd done, that _was_ the only logical conclusion. "Bloody hell."

"It would've been a nightmare," Hermione tacked on, nodding, as well.

Sighing, Antonin crossed to his witch and plucked the book from her fingers. "With the way you've adapted and how quickly you responded to the experiment—your connection with the wolf and your bond with Fenrir—we have to assume that his plan very well could've succeeded. But enough worrying about what _could've_ been. For now, we need to worry about what we do next."

Her shoulders slumping, she darted her gaze about the dilapidated kitchen. "I don't know. I don't want to stay here, not with the death we're leaving behind."

Lady Wolf uttered a series quiet, rumbling _woofs._

The witch met the wolf's gaze, one eyebrow arched. "Thank you."

Antonin and Thorfinn shared a glance before they spoke in unison. "What'd she say?"

"She said we're welcome to go with her. To be part of her pack until we find our own way."

Antonin crinkled the bridge of his nose at that. "Like . . . living in the woods and in caves and such?"

Smirking, Thorfinn stood a bit straighter and propped his fists on his hips. "Sounds like an adventure, I'm in. You can _always_ stay behind, Dolohov, if it's not to your liking."

"I never said I wasn't going. A person _can_ lodge a complaint and still be willing, you know."

Hermione snickered, turning her attention to their companion, once more. "We would be honored to travel with you and yours, Lady Wolf."

The wolf once more let out a series of woofing sounds.

"So be it," the witch said in reply.

Her wizards exchanged another puzzled look before Thorfinn piped up. "Oy, you need to remember we can't understand her, and translate _before_ we have to ask."

Smiling brightly, Hermione nodded. "She says she wants us to call her Hecate."

"Isn't that the name of a goddess?" Antonin asked, his mouth tugging to one side in a curious expression.

"It is . . . one of the books I'd read to her and Fenrir had been about Greek mythology. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised she took a liking to Hecate."

Thorfinn inspected the majestic beast with his gaze as he spoke. "Why's that?"

Sighing—a sound of relief, triumph, and happiness, all rolled into one—Hermione answered, "Like all the deities of old, Hecate represented many things, _including_ witchcraft and the moon."

It hadn't gone according to plan. So much had gone wrong, but they'd survived. And the Elder Wand was now hers. She was a unique werewolf, in rightful possession of the world's most powerful wand. All things considered, she supposed it wasn't so terrible that her endgame had gone slightly awry.

Still, she really would've liked it if Piddle's head _had_ exploded.

* * *

 **Thank you for coming along with me on this journey. We're not through,** _ **just**_ **yet, there's still an epilogue to come, I do hope you'll join me for the final chapter that will bid this story farewell.**


	11. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Hermione awoke the next morning from their full moon run feeling wonderfully rested and refreshed. What she'd not expected was to open her eyes and find one of her mates staring at her, appearing quite grumpy as he waited for her to pull herself entirely from sleep.

Three months had passed since their escape from the chateau, and he'd seemed to enjoy roughing it with Hecate's pack—if anything, Antonin was the one insistent they charm every cave the came across into livable quarters to make things easier on himself. So she could not, for the life of her, imagine what was making Thorfinn so very, _very_ sour this morning.

"Sunshine?" he started with a frown.

"Viking?" She swallowed a yawn and dragged herself to sit up. "What have I done this time?"

"This time? No, no, my frustratingly adorable wolf-witch. Not this time. I'm still cross with you for not warning us!"

Throwing back her head, Hermione uttered a long, ugly-sounding groan. Meeting his gaze, she only shook her head. "For the last time, my heart, I am a unique breed of werewolf. I had no way of knowing unprotected shagging would pass along my curse. O' course . . . might not even be so much the unprotected bit, as the astounding frequency of said shagging."

Standing from where he'd been perched on the edge of her cot, he propped his fists on his hips, a scowl marring his features as his brows shot up. "Is that a complaint I hear?"

Her chestnut eyes widening, she pouted. "Well, no, I'm only saying—"

"Because if it is, we can always go for _less_ frequently."

As fast as her eyes had widened, they narrowed, now, making for a lethal expression. "Oh, don't you dare threaten me."

"Ah, so you don't actually have a problem with—"

"I never said I did!"

Thorfinn rolled his eyes in thought as he moved a little closer to her. "So . . . would you, maybe, be in the mood right now?"

Letting the quilt drop to pool around her waist, she mirrored his stance, propping her fists on her hips. Fine scene they' made, arguing about shagging without a stitch of clothing on either of them. "Maybe I am."

Smirking, he moved a bit closer, still. "Then you'd better get your arse off that cot, you know how the other one hates it when we break his furniture."

Hermione tilted her head to one side, smirking right back at him. "Maybe I'll just stay right where I am!"

"Well, gee, Sunshine, I don't know. _Maybe_ . . . ." He let his voice trail off as he burrowed his arms into the quilt and clamped his hands over her hips. "That would seem more of a threat if I couldn't do this." Plucking her straight up out of the bundle of fabric, he set the naked witch on her feet before him.

"Well . . . ." Standing as straight as she possibly could, Hermione folded her arms beneath her breasts and glared up at him. "Maybe I'm _not_ in the mood for a shag, now."

His smirk fading, Thorfinn narrowed his eyes. After a few strained heartbeats of quiet between them, he said, "You're lying aren't you?"

She rolled her eyes as she let her shoulders slump and her arms fall to her sides. "I am. I really, _really_ am."

Grinning, he pulled her against him, ducking his head to seal his mouth over hers. In a whirl of motion, Thorfinn found himself on his back on the floor. His fingers once more slipping down along her skin to cover her hips, he lifted her over him.

"Wait," she nearly shouted, bracing her palms against his chest. "My wand."

Thorfinn chuckled, giving her a sidelong look. "Rather certain the one I've _already_ got on me's the only one we need for this."

"No, no!" Hermione leaned close to him, snapping her teeth on his nipple. When he let out a hissing breath, she eased back, once more meeting his gaze. Because, really, what a man already as impressively built as Thorfinn Rowle had _needed_ was the added strength of being a werewolf, allowing him to suspend her atop him so effortlessly like this with nothing more than his hands on her hips. "I mean we forgot the silencing charm. You promised Antonin, just like he promised you, that you'd always—"

He cut off her words, forcing a loud, throaty moan from her, instead, as he lowered her over him, moving to meet her in a quick, sharp thrust. For the first few moments, he was breathless at the way her body gripped around him.

When she managed to open her eyes and look down at him, he granted her a savage, satisfied smile. "Let him hear," he said, his voice a rich, gravelly whisper.

Faster than she could react—some alpha he was letting her be, doing all the hard work for her like this—he used his hands on her to rock her against his thrusts. She fell forward against him, lapping and biting at his throat as they lost themselves in each other's movements.

He knew it was something about werewolf instincts that caused the shivers wracking him from something so simple as her teeth scraping his skin. He'd always liked a little bit of pain, always loved the feel of a woman's mouth on any part of him, but not so much that it rivaled the fine tremors running along his muscles from the sensation of being inside her.

Uttering a growl in the back of his throat, he slipped one hand from her hips and up into her hair. Gripping a fist into her wild locks, he all but tore her mouth from his neck, capturing her in another hungry, brutal kiss.

He might've awakened her by yelling at her for the circumstance, but God, did he _love_ being a werewolf.

The way he could smell the delectable scent of her arousal winding off of her as she whimpered and ground her pelvis against his. How he could hear the rushing of her pulse as she tensed against him, and the way her breath caught in her lungs . . . .

Catching that quick flash of amber in her eyes as she came and knowing it was reflected in his own.

By the time she collapsed against him, sweating and spent and scrambling to catch her breath, he was aware—distantly—of muttered Russian cursing somewhere outside the cave.

Snickering, he only lowered his gaze to meet hers.

Hearing the same displeased voice, she shook her head against the Viking of a wizard's chest. "You did that on purpose." The competition between her mates seemed unending. Not that she didn't enjoy the perks of it, but she did often wonder when they'd come to terms with each other.

Thorfinn closed his eyes, tightening his arms around her. "Prove it."

* * *

The following afternoon—she couldn't say she was all that surprised that Dolohov had sourly avoided both her and Thorfinn after that little adventure—she had retreated to the quiet of the spring they'd discovered in the depths of this latest cave. They were likely to be here a while, given the convenience of that.

Trying to fill a tub with magically created water took for-bloody-ever.

The languid rush of the spring obscured scents, but only dulled sound a little bit, so she heard his footfalls clearly as he entered this section of the caverns. She didn't know if he was willing to talk, yet, so she stayed as she was. Her head tipped back against the stone ledge, she continued splashing herself with gentle handfuls of water.

She heard the rustling of fabric, and the soft lapping of him slipping into the cold pool. There was a sweet, giddy little flipping sensation in her belly as she became aware of him moving closer to her. Dear God, months they'd been together, and she _still_ got butterflies in her stomach with them.

"There will be no silencing charm," Antonin announced, and she opened her eyes to find him standing there, expression stoic, and his arms folded across his chest. His pale gaze was fixed on her face, and his tone was as stern as she'd ever heard it. "If he breaks promises, I will, too. It'll serve him right."

Lifting her head, she couldn't help but smile. She wasn't pleased that he was unhappy with something she'd done. But she did appreciate that neither of them held _her_ responsible when the other one did something deliberately thoughtless.

Hermione straightened up in the water reaching for him. "Now, Antonin, you know tit-for-tat never goes well with you two."

"Shut up, you . . . tiny accomplice in his attempts to infuriate me."

Her brows shot up. "Tiny accomp—?" She cut herself off, resting her hands on her hips. "You're trying to rile me up, aren't you?"

Antonin glanced away, shrugging. "Seems to work for him, thought I'd give it a shot."

Pouting, she sighed. Though he didn't react—she could tell he was fighting not to, she could smell it from him—she slipped her arms around his waist and rested her head in the hollow of his shoulder. The position was a bit awkward, what with his own arms still crossed so stubbornly.

"Don't, okay?" she asked, her voice low, the sound of it nearly mingling with the lapping of the water. "Don't do that. You know what you and I have is different than what I have with him. And it's because you're different, so I'm different with you, don't you get that?"

"Actually, that part of it still gives me a headache," he answered, arching his brow.

She lifted her head, meeting his gaze. "I don't want you to be Thorfinn, or Thorfinn to be you. And you both knew this was going to be a confusing situation at times. I've tried my best to make things seem . . . normal, and for the most part they actually _feel_ normal. But I know it doesn't always work."

His shoulders slumped as he dropped his arms to his sides. Cursing lightly under his breath, he cupped her jaw, lifting her face to drop a kiss against her lips. "You're right, you've been trying, and I don't think we let you feel you're accomplishing it very often." Antonin's features pinched in a thoughtful expression as he shrugged. "Suppose _all_ the shagging and running about the woods kind of clouds things."

She sputtered a laugh and slapped his chest.

Though he smiled in response to the giggle that had bubbled out of her, his expression sobered just as fast. "So . . . you really like gentle _just_ as much?"

"I _really_ do."

His eyes drifting closed, he lowered his head, his mouth brushing over hers. She shivered at the feel of his tongue tracing over her lips before darting between them. He adored the way she sighed into his mouth as he explored hers.

Hermione pressed herself tight to him, loving the sensation of his water-dappled skin against her. She slid her hands over him as they kissed, along his arms, down his sides and around his hips. Slipping them down, she gripped his bum with splayed fingers.

He broke the kiss, smirking. "Might want to let go, you're inhibiting what I want to do to you."

"Oh?" Again, she laughed, pulling back her wandering hands. "Pardon me. And you were going to . . . ?"

His smirk broadened, taking on a wicked gleam, as he once more lowered his head. Kissing her, he wrapped his arms around the witch and lifted her against him.

She found herself settled on the stone ledge, following his guidance as he parted her legs to stand between them. Hermione knew she could just as easily demand that he stop the foreplay and bury himself inside her right this instant—in fact, part of her trembled with the desire to do exactly that—but she let herself be at his mercy. She knew he wouldn't allow her to regret giving control over to him, he never did.

He broke the kiss, drifting from her mouth and along her jaw. Antonin pushed her wet hair out of the way, catching her earlobe between his teeth and nibbling.

Letting out a shivering whine at the sweet little pulse that sent through her, she sank her fingers into the dark, longish hair at the nape of his neck. She shifted forward on the ledge, enough to press herself against him, but he clamped his hands over her hips and pushed her back.

Retreating just a little, he met her gaze, that flash of amber shining in his eyes as he said, "You're exactly where I want you."

The breath caught in her throat at both his tone and the intensity in his gaze as he said that. Swallowing hard, she nodded.

Assured she wasn't going to interfere further, he lowered his head to her throat. He dragged his teeth along her collarbone and down to her breasts. The way she shuddered in his arms as he closed his lips over her nipples, teasing them with his teeth and his tongue until they hardened, was exquisite.

He glanced up, noting that she had closed her eyes and tipped back her head. He grinned against her skin. That was the sign that she was giving herself over to him.

Slipping his hands over her shoulders, he pressed her slowly to lay back against the stone ledge. She followed his urging, but didn't relinquish her hold on him, her nails raking his scalp and her fingers twisting in his hair.

Antonin ran the tip of his tongue down across her abdomen, and lower, still. He loved the way she held her breath as he neared her thighs. Teasing her with the tips of his fingers, he made a rumbling sound of approval in the back of his throat as she assisted his efforts by slipping her legs over his shoulders.

He parted her, sparing a moment to look up at her face. She was staring at him, that intoxicating mix of wildness and innocence in her eyes. How she could do what she did with them and still manage an air of innocence undid him.

Holding her gaze, he lowered his head, tasting her in a few teasing laps. When she let out a moan, shifting against the stone to try and get closer to him, he let his eyes drift closed and buried his mouth against her.

"Oh, dear _God_ ," she said, in a whisper, a breathy laugh edging her words.

He worked the sensitive flesh with the very edge of his teeth and the tip of his tongue. He didn't think he'd ever tire of the feel of her fingers gripping into his hair, or the way her body tensed around him as she came. Antonin _adored_ the taste of her.

She thrashed in his embrace, trying to get closer to him, trying to press more firmly against his mouth as the orgasm tore through her. She couldn't stop herself from screaming, wanting him to stop and keep going at the same time. She knew he loved bringing her to this.

And he rewarded her for that, again and again.

By the time he stood up, a wonderful ache in his jaw from seeing to her so thoroughly, his alpha was a beautiful mess. Her eyes gleamed amber in the dull light of the cave, her damp, wild hair was plastered around her, and her skin was flushed. Magnificent creature that she was, she somehow looked dignified to him, even as she struggled to catch her breath.

"No rest for you, yet," he said, not waiting for her to respond as he pushed forward, burying himself inside her.

She arched her back, too exhausted just now to sit up. Wrapping her legs around his waist to keep herself locked with him as he thrust into her again and again, she shook her head. "I think you've actually broken me this time, Antonin. I can't . . . I'm spent, there's n—nothing left."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," he said with a grin, lowering his head to kiss her throat as he pushed himself just a few moments longer.

Though she was correct—she didn't have another orgasm left in her—the way he moved, his hips jerking and erratic as he was nearly at the edge, caused her to shiver violently while she forced herself to meet his motions. The way he thrust into her so wonderfully hard that final time before he stilled, his muscles locking against her as he came, brought another scream out of her.

The sound died on her lips as he slowly relaxed, wrapped in her embrace.

"All right, you made your point!" Thorfinn's voice echoed through the network of the cavern. "No more forgetting the silencing charm!"

Antonin smiled in triumph, even as Hermione covered her face with her hands. "Thank you," he said, showing the good grace not to laugh.

* * *

The next night was chilly, and Hermione found herself glad for the excuse to snuggle between her mates. The wolves weren't especially fond of fires, but they understood that sometimes, the _strange, unfurred ones_ needed it.

The three were curled up together under a thick quilt when Hecate loped up to them. Antonin and Thorfinn patiently awaited Hermione to translate whatever their conversation was. Though they now understood the wolves better, themselves, they still did not completely understand Hecate, just as Hermione did not completely understand the other wolves.

Whatever the connection between the witch and the wolf was, they all seemed to understand—wizard and wolfpack, alike—that it was not only unique, it was _special._

As the wolf strolled away from the fire, Hermione snickered somewhat derisively and shook her head.

"What was that about?" Antonin asked, though he didn't lift his head from Hermione's shoulder. He knew they made a strange picture, his head on Hermione's shoulder, Thorfinn's head atop hers, but it was strangely comfortable. Perhaps wolfs were onto something with their constant need to sleep in big piles of bodies and limbs.

"She wants to know why we're so reluctant to have pups."

"You're not serious."

Hermione laughed at how much Thorfinn sounded like he was in utter disbelief. "Well, it's not like it's _not_ obvious what we get up to. And she knows that because of our magic we have control over certain things. She figured out that we're using magic so that I don't get pregnant. But . . . I guess it wouldn't be so bad. You know, some day. It's all still too soon to even think on that. However . . . ."

Both males raised their heads to look at her. "However?" they asked in unison.

The witch shrugged, grinning. "She believes when I do, um, _pup,_ as she thinks of it, I'll have twins. You know, like a human version of a litter without being overly-adapted to the whole wolf physiology-thing."

"Twins." Thorfinn nodded, frowning thoughtfully. "Wait, like, each time?"

Hermione's brows shot up. "Oh, like I'd know?" She laughed, shaking her head. Just as fast, though, her expression grew serious. "But, um, when I do have that first set of twins, I think I already know what I want to name them."

Antonin and Thorfinn already knew what her answer would be, but they asked, all the same. "What?"

"Hecate . . . . " She paused, feeling her eyes water and that damned lump lodge in her throat. The pain was still so raw, like she'd lost him only yesterday. "And Fenrir."

Antonin nodded, pulling her against him as she started crying. "Yeah," he said, nodding and meeting Thorfinn's gaze over the top of her head. "Yeah, I think those are good names."

Thorfinn nodded, crowding around the quietly sobbing witch, as well.

There it was, the wound that would never truly heal. But they knew that just perhaps, by letting Fenrir live on in some way, she could at least find a bit of peace about his absence from her life.

About the absence from his rightful place in their pack.

 **THE END**


End file.
